


A Turn of the Knife

by lettalady



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: F/M, I really don't have anything against Baltimore I promise, Ransom is a manipulative asshole, Ransom is not the asshole we need in our lives, Ransom is slightly into soft bondage, and really some of the chapters just have implied smut, but usually yea it's because he's an asshole, except sometimes he sort of cares and that confuses the fuck out of him, it's not so much that he CARES it's that he's a possessive entitled prick, its not that I was aiming for smut in every chapter that just sort of (waves vaguely) happens, never forget who Ransom is and where things are headed, prequel to the movie Knives Out, something you can't just throw money at to solve??
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2021-04-06
Packaged: 2021-04-12 06:26:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 46,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21609934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettalady/pseuds/lettalady
Summary: Dysfunctional doesn't even begin to adequately summarize the Thrombey family.Spoiled.Entitled.The list goes on and on.
Relationships: Ransom Drysdale/Reader, Ransom Drysdale/You
Comments: 141
Kudos: 269





	1. Don't fall in love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As previously seen in the November Notes & Nothings (2019)

_‘Don’t fall in love with me_.’ 

It was a joked warning, so you thought at the time. He’d been laughing as he said it, the mood between the pair of you light and teasing as it always was when playing **GO** \- a favorite game.

‘_You’ll want to. But don’t.’_

‘_Not overly full of yourself at all, are you?’ _

You called his bluff but you could already feel the early traces of an attachment forming. A purely platonic love - you’d lied to yourself - the love between friends, between two people that knew the worst of one another and could see around it, through it. He was occasionally a first-rate asshole and you were sometimes a grade-A bitch. For whatever reason it worked as a friendship. 

‘_It’s a well documented pattern. Just trust me. Keep your guard up.’_

‘_My guard’s always up.’_

‘_Good. We won’t have any problems, then._’

‘_None at all.’_

He played the game like he drove, like he lived his life; fast but with purpose. Always demanded to play the black stones. Always gloated when he won. He hadn’t won that day. Ever the sore loser, he’d fallen sullen when you bested him, glaring between you and the board to try to figure out how it’d happened.

You’d simply smiled at him in return: 

‘_Care to go again?’_

_‘One day I”ll figure you out. Your strategy-’ _he’d said as he leaned back in his chair, ‘_and then it’ll be over.’_

That was his tell, the signal he was done with your company for the day. When he tipped his head back, started looking down his nose at you, that’s when it was time to part ways. 


	2. You're the reason for the holes in my sweater

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As previously seen in the November Notes & Nothings (2019)

**Y**ou can probably count on one hand how many family functions Ransom has dragged you to — for the fun of it, which in Ransom means for his own amusement — that haven’t ended in an argument in one form or another. It was usually Harlan, Ransom’s grandfather, and Ransom providing the cringe-worthy end-of-the-evening entertainment.

Not today. Today the family patriarch sits at the head of the table giving the rest of the room a critical stare. And Ransom? Your friend seems content, for the moment, to let the drama play out between Walt and Joni. Whatever had set the pair of them at each other’s throats has worked into a fever pitch of drama usually reserved for the blowouts between your friend and his grandfather.

The rest of the convened family seems just as content to let Joni and Walt snipe at one another, not yet to the point they’re willing to be swept into the disagreement. Time’s all that’s needed for that to change. Linda or Donna or Richard will weigh in and the argument will spread as it always does, engulfing the table before the night is through.

Following along or picking up the progress of the argument is impossible for the other conversations being held. It’s always been this way. If you want to have any sort of hope at conversation you had to borderline shout, at least until the inevitable storm out occurred. It’s quite possible that a sudden quiet follows, or maybe it hardly gives anyone pause. You were usually part of the quick exit — having learned that if you didn’t leave when Ransom jettisoned himself from their company it was a good long wait for a ride share or taxi.

Linda and Richard were never much help, to you or Ransom. They put up with your random appearances just about as well as they did their son’s — all parties agreeing to get along to a certain degree and agreeing to ignore each other all the rest. It’s Harlan that spoke the mostly highly of Ransom, supporting whatever whim’d captured his grandson’s fancy. That, and a love of the elder man’s eccentricities, keeps you saying yes every time Ransom mentions a visit to the Thrombey house.

You risk a glance across the table and frown. Ransom has settled askance in his chair, tipped with his shoulder turned away from his grandfather, turned towards the rest of the room. It’s the look in his eye that has you worried, one that spells trouble as he studies the battle taking place between his aunt and uncle. He’s watching the shouting match with a distinct glee, eyes flicking back and forth almost as though he already knows the pacing of the fury filled dance.

It’s an expression not dissimilar to the one currently worn by Harlan, though you know Harlan’s interest in the matter has different roots. The elder man has produced his little notebook and pen from somewhere on his person and is jotting down occasional notes — ever seeking plot points for future stories. No help from Harlan, then.

You catch Ransom’s eye, careful with the look you give him. If he notes your distinct desire that he _not_ interject himself it will all but ensure that he does it. In response he darts his eyebrows up for a fraction of a second, the edge of his mouth curling into a smirk.

_Shit_.

Bringing your wine glass to your lips you swallow down a little more of the liquid that has likely been staining your lips and tongue a darker color. Silently you half-will Ransom to just eat his damn custard and stay out of the debate that his father has started weighing in on.

It was like broadcasting a green light. Ransom’s smile grows, and he issues a small nod to nobody in particular before he sweeps himself up out of his chair.

_Fuck_.

If you watch his progress through the room it’s only going to egg him on. You force your attention down to the last brownie on the platter, wondering if you can shove it in your mouth and make a hasty exit before the whole room is engaged in a passionate, but pointless, argument.

Harlan starts to hum a tune you can almost place just before you hear Walt snap, “Nobody asked your opinion, you little shit.”

In that little war that Ransom keeps waging against his family he’s likely granted himself another point for such an immediate, viciously delivered, response.

You roll your eyes and finish your wine, leaning to tap the table near Harlan’s notebook as you excuse yourself, “Thank you for another _lovely_ evening.”

Harlan offers you a tight smile, his eyes sparkling as he darts his attention from the spectacle that is his family to look at you. “My pleasure, my dear. It was good to see you.”

You don’t bother to check if Ransom has even turned to clock your departure. He’ll seek you out when he runs out of steam. Escaping from the abrasive behavior is your immediate goal, maybe finding the buzz that should have accompanied the wine you’ve consumed over the course of the evening. It’s a nice enough night, if a little chilly. Perfect for sitting on the porch while you wait for your ride — either the same way you arrived, with Ransom in his BMW, or someone you end up calling.

No need to bother with seeking anyone out to reclaim your coat and gloves, you know where they’ve been stashed…. never mind the fact that most of the staff scattered when the shouting picked up in decibel. The _real_ battle is untangling your things from Ransom’s in the coat closet, that god-awfully flamboyant scarf of his that makes Joni wince every time she sees it always tangling with everything else in close proximity.

“Half the fun is watching you try not to react.”

You fall still, two seconds away from simply using force to rip the buttons of your coat free of Ransom’s scarf. Glaring at him, you shake the garments once more for good — though ultimately ineffective — measure, “You’re such an asshole.”

“Yea, well—” He plucks your jacket and his scarf from your hands and gives them a little yank to separate them, a sharp ripping sound resulting from the motion. “Takes one to know one.”

At least your jacket is free? You start to reach out for it but something in his expression makes you pause and lick your lips. He’s still riled for an argument. The fact that he’s done almost all he can to annoy the snot out of his family tonight doesn’t matter, it clearly hasn’t fully satisfied that urge of his.

You’re used to being the one he argues with, lucky you, when his family isn’t around. That’s not what momentarily freezes you. You can argue with him all day and it not matter in the slightest… it’s the _way_ he’s looking at you that’s different. Something you haven’t seen from him in awhile. Not down his nose - dismissive. Not with his chin tucked slightly, those blue eyes only showing a sliver through narrowed slats - mistrustful. Not even a wide eyed glare…

Not here. That can’t happen here.

You reroute your hand to brush your fingers over the obnoxious print of his scarf, the material now torn. “Oh, good job.” You reach out to pinch at one of the tears in his cable knit sweater, indicating one of the holes he hasn’t cared enough to have repaired. “But you do match a little better, now.”

His eyes flare wider for a moment before he takes a step towards you, quickly winding his scarf around your outstretched hand to keep you from being able to pull away from him.

_Shit_.

“That’s funny.” He tips his head ever so slightly to the side, all the while maintaining that heated _hungry_ eye contact. “If memory serves, and trust me I remember _everything_, didn’t you cause this one?” He tilts his head ever so slightly to the side as he reaches up to finger the triangled hole in the hem of his collar, waiting for you to answer with a predatory smile on his lips.

Technically the answer is yes. Technically. You tip your eyebrows up at him, using your free hand to find a few of the other snags in his sweater. “_You_ gave me that necklace.”

Pointing out those other frayed points was clearly exactly what he wanted you to do. He grins as he wraps the remainder of his scarf around your other wrist. You mutter a light curse, rolling your eyes at his growing smile, “_Fuck_.”

He settles your hands between the pair of you, letting you get a light grip on the front of his sweater before he takes the first step to push the pair of you backward, aiming to squeeze the both of you into the little bit of space left in the coat closet. The family shouting match is still going strong and echoing through the house when he dips his head, one word leaving his lips before his mouth covers yours: “Exactly.”


	3. I'll ruin you just like I ruin my clothes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As previously seen in the November Notes & Nothings (2019)

**E**very action from Ransom while he’s near his family is always undertaken to twist their opinions of him a little further. The fact that you’d forced him to disengage from the argument that had started out between his aunt and uncle only fueled the heat currently passing between the pair of you. Each thrust of his hips is driven by his need to thumb his nose at his family, aimed not for pleasure but maximum fallout. 

Except he’s got his hand over your mouth, muffling the sounds he’s forcing out of you, the cold metal of his pinky ring cutting into the skin of your upper lip. He’s keeping his own grunts half-contained, his mouth pressed into a firm line, his teeth grinding. 

He’s watching your face, clearly half-absent, his head cocked to listen through the closed closet door to the ruckus still going strong in the rest of the house. Linda’s voice can be distinguished above the rest now, the eldest of siblings weighing in on the raging debate to try to command control of the evening. The argument seems to have moved from the dining room out into the foyer, drawing closer to where the pair of you are hidden away. If Linda were to discover her son railing you in the coat closet it would reroute the mayhem enveloping the house in an entirely different direction. 

There’s Walt again - the tones of his exasperation clear even muffled through the door, and Joni’s nasal whine - ever petulant. Ransom nearly unsheaths himself before jerking his hips hard into yours again, his hand pressing more firmly over your mouth as you react to how deep he’d driven himself. You half consider shifting your mouth to bite him, just to see how he’d react. The roughness of his actions are probably also a test to watch and see if the barrier between you still holds. Love was out of bounds, anything close to feelings, too. Anything beyond a cooperative effort to drive his family up the wall. Your casual sexcapades have always been simply a convenience, a quick way to fueling his family’s opinions of his character.

After a minute the shouting starts to quiet - the argument slowly dissipating and moving from how it had spilled out into the foyer to another room, likely the front parlor. With nobody heading to the closet to discover his antics Ransom’s movements start to ease, another moment longer and he pulls himself away from you entirely with an unsatisfied grunt. 

Mark down two for that sentiment. Typical Ransom behavior - fucking you just hard and long enough to wind you up but not long enough to finish the job. You arch your eyebrow at him as he unwinds his scarf from around your wrists and uses it to wipe at his groin, clearly intent on thoroughly destroying yet another article of clothing. Rather than moving on to adjust his pants he shifts, dropping that gaudy-material-covered hand between your legs, his shoulders jumping as he chuckles when you squirm against his heavy-handed ‘cleanup’ between your thighs. 

“Stop it,” you shove his hand free of your body, settling him with an annoyed expression, “Save it for the next performance. It’s clearly going to be awhile before Walt goes out for his cigar.” 

Ransom grins, his humor returning, though constrained. Clearly he’s scratched the itch that had driven the pair of you into the closet in the first place. 

There’s nobody around to witness the pair of you reemerging from among the coats, though muted conversation can be heard echoing through the house. You catch a flash of blonde from the direction of the parlor - Donna - but otherwise reach the front door without further interaction with any of the Thrombey clan, Ransom close at your heels. 

The blast of cold air as you step onto the porch is refreshing, much needed after the cloistering heat there among the family’s winter wear. You’ve had better experiences at the house, but the night definitely could have been much worse. You’ve made it down the porch steps, the gravel drive crunching beneath your shoes, when you hear someone call Ransom’s name - his given name sounding slightly foreign to your ears.

“… Hugh?” 

You turn back first, watching Ransom roll his eyes before pausing on the steps to follow suit. Fran stands framed in the doorway, something held pinched carefully between her fingers. 

His scarf. 

Ransom barks out a sharp laugh, his torso tipping back ever so slightly in his display of delight. You wouldn’t put it past him to have done it on purpose, dropped it as the pair of you walked through the foyer just to see what someone would do upon its discovery. Shame it wasn’t his mother…

Fran steps out onto the welcome mat, crossing the porch to hold out the soiled and torn article of clothing to its rightful owner - who hasn’t even lifted a hand to indicate he wants it back. 

_Poor Fran._ You trap the fleeting thought, pressing your mouth closed before you accidentally let anything slip… but not quick enough. Just there - there at the corner of Ransom’s gleeful smirk - you note the twitch of his lips. You roll your eyes at him and turn your back on the house, resuming walking towards his Beamer. 

Take it or leave it, you don’t care so long as he decides soon so the pair of you can start the drive back to the city. 

“Should I send it to be cleaned?” Fran’s figured out that he’ll just stand there, watching her hold out that godawful scarf, silently smirking at her. She lowers her arm again, holding the ruined fabric carefully away from her clothes. 

His stalling antics win him exactly what he was aiming for from the start, an audience. His father appears at the door, followed closely by his mother, and uncle. “Nah,” Ransom offers everyone a lazy wave of his hand as he turns to fully descend the porch stairs and start out onto the gravel drive, “It was destined for the trash anyway.” 

“Ransom!” Linda looks slightly stricken when she realizes what Fran has been holding. She calls out to her retreating son, “Really. Why can’t you take care of your things?” 

Ransom’s smile expands, locking eyes with you for a moment before he turns his head to shout back at the house. “I did, Mother. Up against your furs. That’s why she looks a little wobbly.”

You look up at the sky, plastering a pleasant smile onto your face. The handle of his BMV offers no safe haven from the ire launched at the pair of you from the vicinity of the porch. 

Ransom can’t resist leaving a potential moment for mayhem untouched. Ever. Every word hurled at him just seems to bounce off, brightening his mood with every failed attempt at a cutting comment.

His uncle’s cracked, pitchy protests - you’re not even sure that Walt is yelling about anything coherent, just yelling gibberish for the sake of it. 

His father’s gravelly, growled disapproval - typical Richard. If Ransom ever did anything that pleased his father it was drive another au pair away, requiring another be hired in her place. 

It’s his mother’s shouted threats of cleaning bills if she finds so much as a _single stain on her precious coats _that wins a parting wave from Ransom, unhurried as he rounds the front of the car towards the driver’s side door, “Eat shit, Mother!” 

You shake your head as you slide into the passenger’s seat, giving the family a tight smile as you pull the door shut - the action hardly blocking out their shouting at all, particularly for the way Ransom pauses to lean against the frame of the vehicle, driver’s side door open wide. 

It’s hard to say what feeds the reactions from the porch more, be it Ransom’s biting retort or simply the way he grins in response to their irritation. Everyone, save Fran, is shouting and tinging slightly pink in the face. Richard and Linda may be leading the furious tirades, but the former’s voice can be heard above the rest for having stepped down onto the stairs in front of the porch: “Crawl up your ass and sniff glue, you unappreciative little shit!” 

“What,” Ransom thrums his fingers on the hood of the Beamer, laughing back, “In that order?” 

He doesn’t wait for a reply from his father, just slides down into the driver’s seat, clearly pleased with the way the night is drawing to a close. Everyone is still shouting, their words lost to the pair of you for the insulation of the car’s revving engine. You watch in the rear-view mirror as Richard hurls his tumbler of whiskey, the arc of his throw pitiful, the glass shattering a few feet from the porch. 

You wait till the car’s tires hit paved road, unable to sit and listen to Ransom’s random chuckling any longer. “Why don’t you call them on any of their bullshit? Why let them believe the worst?” 

It’s not a subject frequently brought up - in fact you usually take pains to avoid any mention of it, not wanting to stir and prod his vicious streak. Maybe it’s because you’re frustrated. Maybe his family’s irritation with him was catching,_ is _catching, and has infected you. 

Ransom’s mood settles, his lips pressing flat as he stares at the road. Those blue eyes cut to you for a moment before he flicks his attention forward again, focused on the drive. There’s still a slight chuckle of amusement in his voice, but it’s fading fast, “Easier to let them think what they want.” His shoulders give a little jerk as he laughs, curious enough - or amused enough - to entertain this discussion of his life-view. “This way I get away with so much _more_. With murder.” 

“Jesus, Ransom.” You shake your head at him, “That’s no way to live.” 

“Says you. It’s fucking _freeing_. Get caught doing coke once and they don’t _blink_ at anything else.” The corner of his mouth pulls a little, and he arcs an eyebrow up at the road, his gaze sliding to you for a second. “You’re mad about the closet.” 

“Irritated.” You correct him with a hard glare, “Irritated that you once again let them believe something that isn’t true.” 

“Oh?” 

Your frustration is bubbling over. Calling him on his shit is one thing. Letting him know how much he’s riled you is another. “Yes! If you _really_ wanted to get caught in there? You wouldn’t have kept your_ hand_ over my _mouth_, Ransom. Never mind what you said to your mother.”

“Eat shit?” That grin is back. He’s enjoying this. 

“No.” You shake your head. _Fuck_ how you want to wipe that grin off his face. You’d just be playing into his hands. You reach around and unbuckle your seat belt. “Never mind. Just - just stop the car.” 

That gives him a second’s pause. 

“What?” 

“You heard me. Stop. The. Car.”

He starts to slow down, the car moving at something closer to the speed limit and not his usual break-neck pace. “What’re you gonna do? _Walk_ back?” 

You put your hand on the door handle, hooking your fingers under the lip of it. “Stop the car, Ransom, or I swear I’ll bail out.” 

“Your choice for the road rash….” His expression conveys confusion, maybe even a little doubt, but he knows you well enough to believe you for that tone you have in your voice and applies a little more pressure to the brakes.


	4. You're stuck beneath my skin

  


**Y**ou thought he was going to leave as soon as you got out of the car. It was what he’d threatened to do - drive off and leave you to walk just as _you’d_ sworn you were going to do. He probably thought about it. Knowing him he’d sat there entertaining the idea of making the Beamer’s tires squeal, just for effect. 

Instead he sat there watching you get out of the car, slamming the door for good measure, with the oddest expression on his face. 

It was another test. It was just another way to try to call your bluff. 

You glare at him through the passenger’s side window of his BMW before turning to start down the shoulder of the road, starting that long walk to home you have ahead of you. There’s enough light left, and the occasional street lamp… you’ll be able to see yourself home alright. Who needs to ride around in a stupid little sports car, anyway? With your coat and gloves, hastily shoved on though they were, you won’t be feeling the cold anytime soon. 

Plus there’s your anger - _irritation, _whatever - over the way the night has ended. 

If _he’d_ just have gotten you off like he’d claimed to his mother - to half his family. If he’d stop always trying to live up to that horrible reputation that they’ve cultivated and shoved at him since infancy. 

Ok, yes, he’s _good_ at being exactly what they’ve always thought of him, and worse - but that didn’t mean… What _did _that mean? You glance back, over your shoulder to look through the windshield at the man behind the wheel, and find Ransom pretty much wearing the same annoyed expression that you currently are. 

Then he lays on the horn, the sharp blast of sound making you jump. 

You flip him off and face forward again, glaring hard at the roadside stretching out before you, and your lengthening shadow. More distance. There needs to be more distance between you and that _asshole _behind the wheel of his precious Beamer. You fully expect to hear the rev of the engine and a flash of white passing you by, followed by tail lights quickly fading from view. 

Nothing happens. 

Exhaling a sharp breath you fold your arms across your chest, determined not to look back again. It’s probably what he’s waiting for. 

There. There’s the rev of the engine, and the slight swing of your shadow as he moves the car - finally - from the spot where he’d stopped and you’d gotten out. But the rest –

Ransom draws the vehicle up beside you, the engine calming to a purr, and leans to be able to talk to you through the few inch gap now showing above the passenger’s side window. _That’s_ what he’d been doing while your back was turned. 

“C’mon. Get back in the car.” 

You glance over at him, eyes sliding to note the loose way he’s gripping the steering wheel before snapping your attention back to his face. You shake your head in the negative, “Go away, Ransom.” 

“You’re being stupid. Get in.” 

Stupid? ‘_Stoopid, with two Os_’ - a favorite phrase of his passes through your head, netting him a hard glare before you moodily turn away and keep walking. He just creeps the car along beside you, probably alternating between watching the road and glaring at you in return. 

Cars occasionally whizz by, veering into the other lane to avoid him, but Ransom maintains the slow almost-idle roll alongside you. He doesn’t even bother continuing to issue demands. As much as he loves arguing he’s also the master of wielding weaponized silence. He’d out stubborn the sun so long as he thought there was something in it for him. 

Question is: what does he think the benefit is for waiting out your anger, ultimately driving you home? You puzzle that over while you walk, your anger ebbing towards annoyance as time passes, all the while Ransom’s Beamer inching along at your side. 

He fiddles with the radio, letting an evening telecaster squawk for a few seconds before scanning to a new station. A few seconds of airtime, just enough to possibly pick up on what song is playing, and then he changes the station again - either scanning for something specific or just trying to prove how little attention he’s paying to you. 

Or to the increasing traffic. 

He’s pulled similar stunts at public venues - the action less gentlemanly than most outsiders interpret it to be. It wasn’t that he was showing a preference for someone, companionship or kindness. He did it to peacock, to make his presence known, but also to cockblock you, too. 

Radio on. Radio off. Radio on. The steady roll of his tires in contrast to the other vehicles on the road roaring past. The occasional horn expressing the unhappiness of the other motorists regarding his antics. The routine doesn’t vary even as you get closer to the outskirts of the city. He keeps it up right up to the intersection leading into your neighborhood where you stop and stand, determined not to move another step towards home until he drives away. 

Ransom tips his hand away from the wheel, motioning in the direction of your house with a wave of his fingers, maintaining the silence between the pair of you while still conveying his intentions. He’ll see you to your door. You shake your head and flip him off in return, watching the muscles in his jaw clench and bunch as he rolls his eyes. He takes both hands off the wheel and gives his head an exasperated shake - _fine!_ \- before swerving out into traffic, finally doing what you’d asked from the start and venturing towards his house. 

About damn time. Now you can let your guard down a little, belatedly realizing that being on the defensive all night had worn you out more than you’d thought. Your house and bed are waiting, warm and inviting. A smile starts to press itself onto your lips as you think about the next sequence of events. You’ll change, leaving the shower for the morning, and satisfy yourself the way _he _refuses to, and then settle for a bit of well deserved rest. 

It’s not your fault that Ransom’s face is there, flashing into your mind as you orgasm - it’s _his_. He’s the one that had gotten you part of the way there earlier in the evening. It was his hand you felt over your mouth as he’d fucked you, and pressing between your legs to torment you during his heavy-handed ‘cleanup’. His fingers always knew exactly which buttons to push, and in what sequence, to have you wet and panting for him in a mere few moments. 

_Damn him_. 

You stretch out in the darkness, restless, doing your best to get Ransom out of your head. It’s the worst place he can be, in your head and under your skin. You flip onto your stomach, your sleep shirt bunching and twisting from the motion, the pair of boxers you’d thrown on hanging loose on your hips. Closing your eyes, you groan. 

This was why your sexploits with Ransom were a bad idea. It was hard to recover, particularly when he left you wanting. When you start to finally drift he’s there waiting for you, that same self-satisfied smirk tormenting you in your dreams. 

The quiet sound of movement pulls you from your delicious dreams, footsteps and the rustle of clothing along with breathing - your brain immediately identifying the sound coupled with the scent of his cologne: 

_Ransom_. 

Annoyed - turned on - tired - you can’t quite decide on the way you want to respond. You stretch and exhale as the bed shifts, the sheets pulling away from your body as his hands search to make contact. You’d swat at him but one arm is trapped beneath your pillow and the other is slightly numb for the way you were sleeping on it. “Go ‘way.” 

His skin is slightly chilled - the temperature must have dropped a little more since you last saw him - his mouth finding your shoulder and shifting up your neck. He inhales long and slow as he settles his body against yours, murmuring against your skin, “You smell delicious.” 

Goosebumps prickle across your arms as you shake the haze of your dreams from your mind. What you smell like? You smell like sweat, and perfume. You smell like the Thrombey house, and wine. You smell like sex and - your irritation spikes and you wiggle a little to try to get him to settle down. “New scent. Fucked and left to sleep it off.” 

His reply isn’t intelligible, his words suctioned into your skin. Ransom angles his hips, maneuvering his torso to push the sheet out of his way. It doesn’t take long for his hands to slide down your sides and start to shimmy the thin boxers down your hips. 

Where is this coming from? Your body is reacting of its own accord, already having experienced a fabulous fucking from him only moments before in your dreamworld. You groan at the betrayal of your body, hiding the half-smile trying to appear on your lips by burrowing your face a little more into your pillow. “Nggh. Go scratch that itch somewhere eeeelse.” 

This time his lips leave your skin, though his hands continue to burrow, wedging the thin material down your hips, “Hpmh. Maybe I will.” 

You wait a second before tipping your chin, lifting your head just enough to be able to look askance at him over your shoulder. He’s still wearing that damned sweater. Has he even gone home? And where is his jacket? “… you’re not getting up.” 

Ransom gives you an odd little shrug, unwilling to remove his hands from the outsides of your upper thighs. “You’re not putting much effort into kicking me out.” 

His fingers flex and you roll to trap one of those wandering hands between your body and the mattress. Won’t help by much, persuasive as he is with other parts of his body, but it’s a start. It’s a little annoying how willing your body is to bend the way he wants, shifting into different positions with barely a touch. “I’m tired.” 

He glances down, smiling at the way you’ve started to arch your back. Your hips seem more than willing to allow themselves to be pulled towards his. He’s almost entirely exposed your ass and probably wants to examine his handiwork.

“Huh. I – are… those my boxers?”

You snort, shifting and freeing his other hand from beneath your body as you roll further onto your side. Talking is - good. Talking is a distraction from what your body seems to be craving, the thing you shouldn’t encourage or risk making it a thousand times worse. 

“Dunno. Probably. Just pulled on the first thing I found in the drawer. You leave your shit everywhere.” You push behind you, your hand colliding with his stomach. There’s tension there, in his stomach and leading lower. You feel the jump of his muscles when he chuckles in response. 

Otherwise he doesn’t move. 

In the darkness you watch him over your shoulder, how he blinks and then swallows, his fingers seeming to _itch to touch,_ the pad of his thumb running over the first few knuckles of his digits. He slowly forces his gaze away from his pair of boxers that have settled well below your hips, a sharp smile appearing as his focus rises. Ransom ducks down to nip lightly at your neck before biting with a bit more force into the meat of your shoulder. 

“Nnngh.” The sound you make is the same as all the others you made in protest, but rooted in an entirely different region. 

Ransom loosens the pressure of his teeth, turning his head without letting his lips leave your skin, “Gonna tell me to get out again?” 

“Just to get out of your clothes.” 

You feel the vibrations of his amusement as he laughs, “You too.” But then he inhales sharply, “No. Actually. I’ll do that for you.” 

Have you accidentally discovered something else that turns Ransom on? Oh _no_ \- does that mean he’ll leave more of his dirty laundry laying around? Things to consider at another time. Right now you’d much rather focus on the man working his way through getting the both of you naked. 

There goes that well-worn cable knit sweater, yanked over his head and tossed to land you-don’t-know-where. He pulls his undershirt off and launches it behind him in a similar fashion before lowering back down from how he’d drawn up onto his knees, pausing to unbuckle and unzip his pants. He’ll deal with the rest when he wants to. You focus on moving along with his hands once he starts to shift your body, removing what little clothing you had to start with. 

Something else belatedly occurs to you as Ransom slides his long-forgotten-at-your-place piece of clothing down past your knees, one of his hands hooking beneath your leg, “How’d you get in? The door was locked.” 

Ransom pulls the leg he’d been manipulating free of that side of the boxers, abandoning that particular task with a humor tinged grunt as he answers, “What. Like it’s hard to get a key copied?” 

  



	5. My lips your skin again and again and again

  


  


**R**ansom groans in complaint of the sound of your alarm but otherwise seems dead to the world. He doesn’t even react when you reach across him, planting your hand in the middle of his back to balance as you reach to silence your phone’s morning alarm. 

“I’ve got to go to work.” 

Silence. The man is a lump in the bed beside you, laying there on his stomach with the sheet twisted half beneath him. A gorgeous, stupid -_ oh God how many times did you scream his name last night?_ \- lazy lump that looses a small snore when you nudge him. 

“Ransom…” 

He’s awake. He’s deliberately being a pain in your ass - laying there pretending to sleep and doing a piss poor job of it. You can _see_ that smirk. Ooooh. Tender noises escape you as you start to stretch, parts of your body protesting being moved in that manner after such strenuous activity the night before. 

Now you’ve got his attention. 

“Are you going to shower here, or–” You swat at him when he reaches out, his hand moving towards your waist. Better to move out of his reach or risk being pulled back into the consequences-aren’t-a-thing-I-acknowledge zone that he seems to perpetually live in. “Some of us have schedules to keep, you know. _Jobs_.” 

Ransom rolls, the sheet _almost _drifting along with the motion to keep him modest. Almost. His body shakes as he laughs when your gaze drifts down, following the well toned muscle definition south to the freshly exposed section of skin. You’re working on too little sleep and have entirely too many endorphins pulsing through your system to keep your thoughts masked from him. Your body is littered with imprints of his teeth, hickeys already forming in all manner of creative places. You _do not_ need to test who has better endurance with him right now, no matter how tempting it may be. 

He reaches behind his head to grasp the metal frame of your headboard, his lazy smile lingering as he stares you down. “You don’t have a job,” he scoffs. “You’re art - decoration used to sell useless _things_ to useless people.” 

That’s the crudest way anyone has ever described what you do in the gallery. Ok, you didn’t interview for it - it was a family favor from a friend of a friend. No, there was no real set schedule that you were expected to keep, you simply enjoyed being there in the morning to have a more quiet time with the art. Yes, you stand there in pretty dresses and smile at the clients and try to convince them to buy pieces to display in their homes. 

All of that considered together didn’t make it any less a _job._

It’s tempting, for all of a moment, to keep standing there with your hands on your hips and argue the point with him - but then it hits you: that’s just what he wants. You’d withdrawn the first option he’d wordlessly suggested simply by moving your naked body out of his reach. Naturally his second inclination is to start an argument. 

You roll your eyes at him and head towards the bathroom. “You know where the kitchen is.” Your voice echoes around you, bouncing off the tiled surfaces, “And don’t think I’ve forgotten about that key! I want it back before you leave!” 

“Not a chance.” 

As you lean to turn on the water for your shower you shake your head, muttering a petulant echo of his words under your breath. “_Not a chance.” _

Ransom is still in bed when you reemerge from the bathroom, clean and wrapped in a plush bathrobe, a puff of steam escaping the bathroom as well. If it weren’t for the mug of coffee on the nightstand that hadn’t been there before you might’ve assumed he’d simply rolled back over the moment you shut the bathroom door.

Standing there letting your eyes roam over his exposed skin is dangerous. Dangerous and distracting. Did he even get dressed to go to the kitchen and back? 

You squint at him for a second before scooping up the warm mug off the nightstand and taking a sip of the dark liquid. "Your turn.” 

He smiles in the direction of your voice, his eyes still closed, inhaling and stretching - taking his sweet time - before opening his eyes to look at you. The moment those blue eyes hit the mug in your hands his expression drops into a half-scowl. “That was mine.” 

“Yes, and now it’s mine. Get up. Get showered. And get _out_ so I can go to work.” 

Ransom heaves himself up, exhaling hard as he pulls one arm across his chest and twists to crack his spine. He rolls his shoulders and drops his focus down, hooking his thumb into the waistband of his boxers to lower the material and expose the bite mark you’d left between his hip bone and his groin. He prods it with the index and middle fingers of his opposite hand before quirking an eyebrow at you.

At least he’d put something on rather than wandering around your house without a stitch on. 

When you start to sidestep to make space for him to head towards the bathroom he abandons his idle exploration of the results of the night before and reaches out, gripping the handle of the mug over your hand. You narrow your eyes at him as he guides both the mug and you towards him - pulling your hand along to allow his lips to reach the rim of the mug, his eyes meet yours over the cup. Something about this whole ordeal is amusing him _endlessly. _

You’re not about to make the mistake of asking him what. 

He seems to consider the coffee a moment before swallowing, finally sidestepping around you to make his way into the bathroom. Even after he shuts the door you wait until you hear the water running before you continue getting ready for the day. 

Abandoning the mug of coffee on your dresser you move to the mirror to check that the dress you’re thinking of wearing will cover any evidence of what transpired between the pair of you. No visible marks should show above the neckline. _Good_. You shift the robe just far enough to expose the ripening imprint he’d left on your shoulder. That bruise will last.

_‘A decoration used to sell useless things to useless people_.’ 

You frown at yourself in the mirror. Didn’t the entire extended Thrombey clan have accounts with the gallery, save the children? How’s _that _for useless people? Actually, he’d probably agree with you there. But._ Oh_. Now that’s a thought. You smile at yourself in the mirror before flicking your attention, for a moment, in the direction of the bathroom. He’ll be in there for awhile. He’s not been any sort of rush this morning. 

It only takes you a moment to locate his pants - as tempting as it is to pluck his card from his wallet, _no_, you don’t even need that. Just his phone. You need to make a call. 

Someone picks up at the gallery on the second ring - _one never leaves a potential client waiting_. 

It’s second nature to adopt the bright greeting that tinges your voice. “Good morning. Yes, I’ll be in shortly… I’ve been talking to Ransom - yes, _Hugh_ Drysdale.” You meet your own gaze in the mirror before flicking your attention towards the bathroom. He’s still in there enjoying the water pressure. You turn back to the mirror and smile at yourself. “He’d like to make some changes at the house. We were thinking - a half dozen pieces or so? Maybe more. On his account. Yes. Delivery? Oh, yes, that will be _perfect_. He’d like to have them installed by the end of the week at the latest.” 


	6. I'd rather have you on my wall

  


**D**id you get a little carried away selecting pieces to be charged to Ransom’s account? Maybe. Maybe not. You had to sell the claimed overhaul of his decor, after all - _and _make sure it provided a big enough dent in his funds to get his attention. 

To celebrate you treat yourself to a victory pair of shoes, smiling at them every time you look down. _Oh_ if you could have talked your way into being there just to see the look on his face as it was unloaded - piece after piece - as it hit him what you’d done. He’d know, or at least start to form an inkling, the moment the transport vehicle pulled up with the gallery logo on the side and began to unload.

He’d left your place at the start of the week without returning that key he’d made, a too-pleased-with-himself grin plastered on his face as he strolled to his car that morning. You hadn’t noticed in the rush to leave for work, but upon returning home you’d discovered his sweater still half hidden under the bureau, and a pair of boxers in the floor near the closet - likely the ones he’d peeled off your body, though there was also the chance he’d worn that pair home? 

Better to not read too much into the forgotten articles of clothing. And the key? That was a problem solved easily enough during your morning commute - that second phone call of the morning equally as important as the first. This one not to work, but to _schedule_ some work to be done: a locksmith, to change the locks at your place. 

You ignore the first call from Ransom, occurring mid-morning, roughly coinciding with the estimated delivery time for his newly acquired Basquiats. No voicemail alert - not that you would have checked it if he had bothered to leave a message. Leave the floor and miss selling another ‘_useless thing’_ to another ‘_useless person’_? Not a chance. 

The next time your phone lights up, the screen illuminating with his name, it’s a little after lunch. It’s tempting to excuse yourself and answer, gloat a little and see how he’s enjoying each of the pieces you carefully selected for him. It’s far more fun to let the line ring and ring, imagining how he’s reacting with every additional moment you let it go unanswered. 

The third call comes through mid-afternoon, just as you’re collecting your things to leave for the day. You carefully shoulder your purse as you smile at the inanimate device on the desktop. It is doing it’s job, cheerfully vibrating in short little bursts to alert you that he’s calling. Leaning to snag your jacket and then balance over the chair you’d just retrieved it from, you coo at the screen of your phone - at the name displayed on the screen, “Who’s ‘_just decoration’_ now, Ransom?” 

“Still you. Not that there’s room to have you on the wall.” 

Speak his name and the devil will appear, offering a snide retort.

Leaving your jacket thrown over the back of the chair you straighten yourself out and turn to face him. He’s leaning against the long partition that separates the gallery from the desks where everyone’s things are stored, his arms crossed. He’s got his chin jutted out and his jaw clenched - a bad combination for the murderous glare he’s locked onto you.

Ransom snorts, unfolding his arms as he takes a step closer, “Seriously, though. What the hell.” 

You feign an innocent expression, the corners of your mouth fighting to let your satisfaction show. “Hmm?” 

The light blue-grey of today’s sweater makes Ransom’s eyes look like a storm-churned sea. He drops his voice lower as drives the words out, the hard emphasis coupled with a shake of his head. “You know damn well what. Don’t _hmmmm_ me.” 

God it’s fun getting under his skin, winding him up. Your smile refuses to remain contained, airing as you give a light shrug of your shoulders. How much further can you push him before he erupts? 

You turn your back to him, glancing down to watch him move to close the distance between the pair of you. He doesn’t grab your arm, spinning you around to face him again. He opts instead to reach around you to claim your jacket. 

It works towards the same end goal, all the same. You still turn to face him, finding his jaw working when you turn and arc an eyebrow at him. “Cancel it. Refund it. Return them.” 

“You know I can’t do that.” A quick check tells you that nobody is paying the pair of you much attention, and nobody is close enough to hear what’s being said. You keep a sunny smile on your face just in case someone is discreetly monitoring the pair of you.

“No?” 

Ransom dips his hands away from yours, keeping your jacket out of your reach, half stepping to his right to force you to have to swivel to maintain eye contact. It’s a manipulation tactic to see if he can unsettle you from this victory you’ve claimed simply by making you unsure of your footing, unsteady in your stance. It won’t work. 

Except. _Shit_. Your boss has noticed who you’re standing there with. That _a Drysdale_ has appeared in the building. Everything’s fine. Nothing to see here. No need to walk over and engage a riled Ransom in conversation.... 

You test the waters to see if Ransom will continue this weird slow dance that the pair of you have started. If you can get him to follow suit, to keep turning, you might be able to keep Ransom’s so-far-from-pleased expression from being witnessed by your boss. That’s all you have to do - manage that miracle and keep that sickly-sweet smile on your face. “No. You know I can’t.” 

“Twelve. _Twelve _pieces.” 

“Yes.” Giggling as you nod is _such _a bad idea at the moment, but you can’t help it. Something more rooted in genuine mirth appears on your lips, sidelining the forced expression you’ve been trying to hold in place, “I counted them, too.” 

“Hmph.”

Maybe if you can just - move this conversation outside. Maybe if he’s in motion rather than rooted at your desk, rooted and angry. Rooted, angry, and - _oh, shit - _very aware of the exact location of your boss, and that your boss has pinged his presence. Ransom exaggerates the motion as he tips his head up, looking away from you to direct a polite nod towards the main gallery before darting his eyes in your direction. It’s not quite an invitation, but the establishment of an awareness - an alert for your boss to keep an eye out for an upcoming summons.

_Fuck_. 

Your victorious high ground slowly starts to shift beneath the soles of your new shoes. You don’t like that look in Ransom’s eye. Not one bit.

He moves his lips carefully, keeping the words so that they’ll only pass between the pair of you, “What’ll they make of you cleaning out my account? Making a purchase I didn’t authorize?” 

In a blink the roles have reversed, the expressions worn by the pair of you swapped within that small fraction of a moment. He’s the one wearing a humor-tinged smirk, his eyebrows tipping up as you fight against murderous scowl. 

“It’ll be a game of he-said, she-said.” Something else occurs to you, another avenue to attempt if he forces it. You tip one shoulder up, “Or that you’re experiencing a little buyer’s remorse regarding the expense.” 

He reads your bluff in your expression, his lips twitching as squares his focus onto you again. “Might be a fun theory to test. See who’ll win.”

“We can always start a claim. See if we can get a portion of your funds ba -- _Ransom_.” Your fast-talking humor dies out as he folds your jacket over one arm and waves the other to summon your boss - the friend of a friend of the family - over to join the pair of you. He simply grins over at you after the action is complete, delighting over the way you spiraled to the point of hissing his name. 

The asshole is going to try to get you fired. You just _know _it.

“I hope everything was to your liking, Mr. Drysdale.” 

You barely contain the eye-roll, tensing for what comes next. But Ransom’s expression has cleared. The murderous man is gone, replaced by charming and sociable Ransom. You narrow your eyes at him. What game is he playing? 

“Yes! We were just discussing which of the pieces I’ll be keeping, and which are going to be auctioned.”

Auctioned? He’s going to try to profit off the whole experience! 

_Damn him_.

His focus flits to you for a moment before he continues, as though your attention would have drifted anywhere else. “Just making sure the details were in place before I left. Ski trip.” 

He’s showboating - deliberately making it clear that throwing around huge amounts of money didn’t put the slightest damper on his lifestyle. Oh to have the golden parachute of your grandfather’s fortune at your disposal. 

That will likely be Ransom’s next stop. All the better to coordinate a replenishment of his account after he outs your misbehavior to your boss. That other shoe is coming. You’re braced, waiting for it - that sudden kick to the shins. 

“Of course. You’re in good hands here. We are -” your boss casts a glance in your direction, including you in the collective ‘we’ in a way that makes you want to throw up but you hold your faux-smile in place, “very appreciative of your family’s continued patronage.” 

Ransom’s eyebrows drift up, clearly entertained by your boss’ perfect opening and how it set him up nicely to divulge your misdeeds. Maybe that’s his aim, forcing you to find something else to do with your time. Just because he spends his copious free time jumping from fascination to fascination... Who _cares _that you _enjoy _being here with the art.

He unfolds your jacket, shifting it in his arms to silently signal his intention to wrap up the conversation. When he’s done everyone else is too. 

You sidestep Ransom standing there waiting with your jacket, choosing to snag your phone rather than fall in line with his wordless cue. You can’t just take your jacket from him, no matter how much you want to snatch it out of his hands - not while the pair of you are pretending politeness under the supervision of a third party. It’s the game you always play with him - playact one scenario while another lurks beneath the surface. 

“Is there anything else we can do for you today, Mr. Drysdale?” 

Your boss is laying it on as thick as ever as Ransom settles your jacket over your shoulders. 

“Actually...” You fall still as Ransom clears his throat, gently resting his hands on your upper arms. “I’d love to borrow the best hands in the business, here, to oversee the installation of the pieces I’m keeping. To make sure everything is displayed with proper care.” 

You attempt to worm out of his grasp - all the better to see his face - but he maintains his grip. He holds you firmly in place just where he wants you. _That’s_ what this is about? Getting you out of the gallery, stuck in his place for a few days? You try again to move, rotating your shoulder, but find yourself stuck fast.

Stuck, until your boss agrees - all too quickly and with extended apologies for the oversight - to have a small team, and you, dedicated to installing the newly acquired pieces over the next three days. It’s only after your boss leaves to get the paperwork coordinated that Ransom releases your shoulders, tucking you under one arm as he turns to guide the pair of you towards the door. 

“The next time you pull a stunt like this,” he ducks his head down, shifting back to the _yep-I’m-annoyed-with-you_ tones as he side-eyes you, “_I _won’t be the one kissing my grandfather’s ass for more money.” 

“No?” The implication there is that _you’ll_ be the one doing it. You loose a rueful smile, “That where you’re headed next?” 

Ransom shakes his head, finally releasing you out from under his arm as the pair of you approach the exit. He shoves the door open and waits for you to pass through it, “God, no. That’s the first thing I did after I saw how much you spent.” He pauses, half muttering into the wind as the pair of you emerge from the building out onto the sidewalk - _12 Basquiats_. 

The order had cost him a pretty penny. You’re not even the slightest bit sorry now that you know he won’t be aiming to get you fired. Never mind the fact that he’s found a way to _profit _from it. 

You watch him, the way he shoves his hands into his pockets and shifts his shoulders against the breeze. He nods in the opposite direction of his car - the Beamer easily identifiable parked a few spaces down in one of the spots on the street - somehow guessing, without so much as a glance, the correct side-street where you’d parked your car. Maybe he did a little recon before storming into the gallery to confront you. 

“What outlandish lie did you tell this time?” 

“To granddad?” He chuffs out a laugh, looking away from you as his expression shifts. He shrugs as he turns back, those stormy blue eyes clouding slightly darker, “There’d be no point. Told him the truth.” He blinks and swallows, losing his focus on you for a moment before zeroing in on your face again, a slow smile reemerging to sharpen his features, “Sat there in his office and laid it all out. He was fucking delighted. Said to tell you ‘_well played’_.” 

That’s... something. The pair of them have the strangest relationship - at each other’s throats one minute, sharing unfiltered truths the next. It makes you wonder what else Harlan knows about what goes on between you and his grandson. 

Ransom brings you out of your thoughts when he stops short at the end of the building - well before the end of the block, or the side-street where your car is parked. Clearly he’s said all he plans to and it about to take his leave. 

Except he doesn’t turnabout and head back towards his car. Not yet. He points, instead, towards your shoes, “I wouldn’t wear those tomorrow.” 

He’s not worried about the floors of his place. He’s never objected, or had much concern regarding footwear worn in his house before. Where his abrupt halt had garnered him a double take, this time you glance between him and your new shoes, puzzled by his statement. “I - wasn’t planning on it?” You wave your hand at him and resume walking towards your car, still talking to him over your shoulder without bothering to raise your voice at all, “Anyway, whatsit matter to you? You’ll be halfway to Aspen, or wherever.” 

“Oh, I’ll be there.” 

There. At the house? You stop walking and turn back to face him again, your expression inquisitive. It only makes him smile brighter, asshole that he is. 

Ransom nods at you, lifting his voice to reach you across the distance established between the pair of you, motioning with his hand to indicate how he might sprawl out on one of his beloved pieces of leather furniture. “Stretched out in the recliner, I think.” 

“I thought you said...” 

“Trip isn’t for another week, at least.” He interjects, “Plenty of time to supervise your supervision.” 

You blink at him, exasperation getting the better of you. Shaking your head, you re-situate the way your jacket hangs from your shoulders. You should just give up and slide your arms into it - or stop arguing with Ransom out here on the sidewalk. 

You don’t do either. 

“You’re such an asshole. You’re just gonna sit there and do nothing to help, aren’t you.” 

"Watching’s not nothing. And, please. _I’m_ the asshole?” He points at himself, half-laughing. “This from the bitch that tried to spend all my money on painted pieces of--” 

Ok. You’re not _that _far from the gallery that you’re comfortable with him shouting that little detail in the middle of the sidewalk. Never mind the fact that you’d selected a couple of pieces towards the end of the lot that you thought he actually might like. Downfalls of the job, enjoying your work, knowing him so well, and how very carried away you’d gotten in the selection process. 

You cut off his rant, delivering one of your own: “_Useless. Shit_. I know. Did you even look at all of them? No. Don’t answer that. I’ll find out tomorrow when I see what you haven’t bothered to unwrap.” 

You shake your head at him, wanting to turn away and continue down the sidewalk but finding yourself unable. You want to get a rise out of him. You want to make him riled and fidgety. Instead you get to watch him tuck his hands back into his pockets, widening his stance as he gets comfortable where he stands. The asshole is enjoying himself at your expense, as usual. 

Not for long.

“You throw your money - your _grandfather’s_ money - around at whatever catches your eye like it doesn’t even matter, and then judge people for spending it on something they enjoy, Ransom. It’s hypocritical bullshit.”

It should get a rise out of him. It should make him narrow his eyes at you and grind his teeth, the mention that the money he throws around actually belongs to someone else. His sense of entitlement, his victim complex, should guarantee a reaction. But he just stands there with one of his eyebrows raised, calculating, humor coloring his features. 

Ransom flexes his hands in his pockets, taking a leisurely step and then another closer to you. “Does it piss you off more that I called something you’re passionate about useless - bits of paint thrown on a canvas - or that I complemented you? Said you’re a work of art?” 

He clearly didn’t hear your jab about his funds - or has tucked it away to return to at a later time, his attention occupied with delivering his own whittled comment. He’s entirely too good at getting under your skin, and picking moments in time to turn you about, throwing you off balance and giving you conversational whiplash. “That’s - not the point.” 

“I think it is.” He tips one shoulder up, that stupid smirk still plastered on his face. 

Exhaling, you press your lips together for a moment. Humoring him is getting you nowhere. Better to regroup and prepare for tomorrow, for the next few days spent at his place. You’ll find a way to punish him for forcing your presence, and forcing your intended lesson to fall flat. 

Ah. But maybe you know just how you’ll get started with that effort. You offer him a little wave paired with a bright smile, “See you at eight.” 

That makes that smirk of his lessen by a fraction. “Eight? We said ten.” 

There goes his lazy early morning routine. You nod, “For the rest of them. But we’ll need to sort through everything currently on your walls, as well as the new pieces. You don’t want everyone standing around doing nothing, do you?” 

Ransom flexes his hands in his pockets again, his expression shifting a little more as he studies you. He’ll catch on quick enough in the morning. He plans to do nothing but watch you work? You’re going to put on a show and make him regret that decision. 


	7. Why won't you run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ If you try to rattle Ransom’s cage be prepared for him to rattle yours right back. ]

  
  


**M**orning sunlight cuts through the trees, slicing the meandering driveway with thin ribbons of light as you approach Ransom’s house. The seclusion works well for 10 Kenoak Street, the numerous windows in the modernist structure making privacy all but otherwise impossible, at least for the majority of the ground floor. 

It felt odd to you the first time you saw it, the design so very different from that of the Thrombey house. But maybe that had been the point. Ransom had decided to find something that on its base level invoked an entirely different vibe. 

And inside? The warm hues of the tanned leather sofa and chair, the medium stained wood cabinets and tables, and red tones of the brick fireplace spoke to a man that Ransom, upon first glance, very much wasn’t. It was almost like catching the glimmer of a shadow in a foggy mirror, glimpsing the man he could have been underneath the man he’s been trained to be since birth. 

He answers the door in standard attire, pinstriped slacks and a casual pullover. He’s still barefoot, either opting to skip that step today or just not quite there yet in his morning routine. The fact that his hair is still mussed from the way he’d toweled dry forces you to lean towards the latter of the two options. It’s likely all by design to lead you down the path that makes you think of him in the shower, which is exactly what you’re doing. His eyebrows inch up, delighted. 

_One point - Ransom. _

But you came prepared to play that game, today. 

The scoop neck shirt you’re wearing will sag away from your body when you lean over, exposing a fair amount of skin. You checked in the mirror to make sure that he’ll be able to spot the hickey he’d suckled into existence on your chest. It’s not a mark as large, not a bruise as deep as the one on your shoulder, but it’ll do the trick since he made it clear he would be _watching _without any intention of _helping_. You’d considered wearing something a little more sheer than the white cotton shirt but that would’ve tipped your hand the moment he opened the door. As for the pencil skirt you’ve selected, you’ll have to see how long it will take him to realize the absence of the ridge of a pantyline. You’re aiming for a metered torture, a tempered tease.

You slip past him, inhaling as the aroma of brewing coffee hits you and issues a summons to the kitchen. “Morning, sunshine.” Casting a glance over your shoulder, you smile gently at him, “Ready to get started?” 

The lightest frown knits his features as he closes the front door, gone before he’s turned to follow you deeper into the house. Ransom works his jaw, chewing his words and swallowing as he pads along behind you in the direction of the kitchen.

_One point - you, sort of._

It’s a reaction from him, but not quite what you were aiming for or expecting. You stop short when you glance aside at the living room and note that the majority of the furniture has been shoved aside to make space for the gallery team to work. Another unexpected move from the man that swore he was just going to supervise the supervision of the work being done. Maybe he’s changed his mind on having extra bodies in his house for a few day span. 

Ransom bumps past you, a secret smile tucking itself away in your peripheral vision before you’re left watching him disappear into the kitchen. “Ready when you are.” 

His morning cup of coffee waits on the counter next to the newspaper that he’s spread wide to take up most of the rest of the surface. It’s an odd puzzle piece to consider; has he been up, reading and enjoying the morning, or has he just gotten up and showered? The evidence presented is conflicting. 

Opening the cupboard to retrieve a mug for yourself you pause with your hand on the knob of the open cabinet door. You recognize one of the mugs nestled in with the rest. It’s one of yours. Why would he have taken it? _When _would he have taken it? You certainly didn’t bring it over. Before you had the locks changed, sure, but how long has it been absent from your place? 

No - that’s just - it makes little sense. It’s just a mug that looks suspiciously like one you have and just haven’t seen, used, cleaned, or put away in awhile. Yours is probably stashed in the back of your stockpile of cups. You reach for it, intending to look for the crack at the bottom of the handle, but feel Ransom draw closer behind you and opt instead to snag a different mug from the shelf. Your main focus is to drive him crazy today, that and get a little work done.

He’s within your personal space when you turn around to check, his eyes a hazy blue this morning, and narrowed. “You know–” 

It’s a look you recognize, and one that should be listened to. Forget the coffee cup you think you recognize, or the java boost to your system. Forget two hours spent dealing with him on your own before the gallery team arrives. You should be heading for the door - instead you step back to steady yourself against the kitchen cabinetry. 

Has he already spotted the absence of underwear, aiming for a bit of intimidation before a morning fuck? 

Ransom takes the empty cup out of your hands and sets it on the counter top, his cool eyes never leaving your face. One of his broad palms slides into place around your neck just under your jaw, the pads of his fingers digging lightly around the back of your throat. 

His mouth twitches before he speaks again, perhaps because your small smile hasn’t lessened in the slightest. His lips part in mirror to the movement of yours, and he takes a breath before continuing, “When I saw that bill – I coulda killed you.” 

His eyes drift down to your mouth, watching you close your mouth and swallow but not doing the same. His gaze drops further to his hand gripping your throat, and down further still to the place you reach up and touch his wrist just under the bulge of his watch. Your fingers find his pulse through the material of his pullover - strong and steady - and you swallow again, feeling the way your muscles fight against the pressure he’s applying. 

You let your hand drift his with arm as he releases your neck, his fingers trailing down to snag at your collar and pull just enough to expose the lingering mark of his teeth on your shoulder. You watch his breathing - deep inhale, deep exhale - as he focuses on the healing bruise he’d left. 

“Thought about it.” 

His words are softly spoken, his tone cold. 

Goosebumps ripple over your skin. Does that mean he already knows that you’ve changed the locks to your place since that night of his unexpected arrival and exhausting fuck session? Had he tried again to use that key? And would simply changing the locks really stop him if he was that determined to gain entry and _wasn’t _focused on a sleepless night in bed? Is this just one of his more vicious moments, one of his moods meant to solidify everyone’s poor opinion of him? Cause his tone _really_ makes that threat he just leveled seem less like a figure of speech and more like he means it.

He lifts his gaze and locks those icy eyes on yours, unlocking the sequence of events in your mind. He’d shown up at the gallery _after _seeing his grandfather. Once his funds had been replenished - well, you could have paid him back. It wouldn’t have been immediate, and you would have had to try to bridge relationships with family members that you’d burned years ago, but you could have done it. 

Would that have satisfied him? You ignore the little voice in your head whispering for you to keep quiet, keep still. - _Curiosity killed the cat_ \- “And now?”

He tips his eyebrows up at you in return, releasing the collar of your shirt as he shifts his stance, leaning to snag the coffee carafe off its base. 

It’s hard to get a read on his silence. Is that his answer? Is there an answer to be found in the way he turns his back, crossing the kitchen to refill his mug? He abandons the carafe on the counter near his newspaper, tilting his head in a silent beckon as he exits the room - _you coming?_

You remain stuck resting against the counter for a moment before finding your feet beneath you, loosing yourself from the way you’d become rooted. Retrieving the carafe, you pour yourself a cup, nearly filling the dark liquid to the brim of the mug before replacing the carafe on its base. 

This was definitely not the way you’d foreseen the day getting started. 

_Another point - Ransom. _

_Fuck_. 

But – his focus had fallen to your mouth, tipped down to the marks he’d left on your skin. His menace had tripped and snagged on desire. Maybe the day can go as planned after all - a bit of distance, heavy hints handed out, and glimpses allowed of secret bits of skin. 

You take a sip of your coffee before lifting your free hand to trace your fingertips along the phantom grip of his hand at your throat. He’s the one that walked out onto the blade’s edge. Here you are, readying to follow, wondering which of the pair of you will cut yourself on it first. 

It only takes a moment to find him, settled into his leather lounger in the main room, a magazine held open with his attention fixed to it. It almost feels as though the pair of you are players, withdrawn to your respective corners to reset the board and start anew. Everything’s a game with him, always this prolonged game where he refuses to lose. 

You kick off your shoes, tucking them neatly at the edge of the room before turning your focus to the piece that hangs over the fireplace. “I’ve always loved that one there. Were you thinking of moving it into storage? To make room - or -” You catch his attention flicking to the numerous Basquiats now in his possession care of the order you’d placed. Nodding, you carry right on like nothing had happened a few moments ago in the kitchen. “No. You’re right. We should start by sorting through what you want to keep.” 

It wins you another light frown from him and the barest twitch of his mouth. Nothing more. 

He’d unwrapped some of the pieces - when they’d arrived, last night, or this morning - who knows. Easy enough to start with those, displaying them by lining them up on the far wall. It’s a tactic that benefits you twofold: it keeps a bit of distance between the pair of you to allow things to settle further, and it doesn’t use the space he’d created the way he’d probably intended. 

It’s easy enough to line up and display the canvases already unwrapped. The chore starts when you get to the pieces he’d left stacked together, leaning precariously likely in the very spot they’d been placed when the gallery delivered and unloaded them. 

Twelve pieces probably _had_ been pushing it. You certainly had riled him, even if you saw the true results a day belated. Your mind drifts to the way his hand had gripped your throat and the strength of his fingers, then to the way his eyes had snagged on the bite mark he’d shifted your collar to reveal. But then you wander further and get lost thinking of the many _other_ ways he’s used those talented fingers, how he’s manipulated your body with those hands. 

You draw a steadying breath, squirming at the tightening of your core as you do your best to push aside the craving threading through you. You’re here to tease him, to tempt him,_ to _send _him_ into a spiral of desire. _Not_ the other way around. 

A quick check as you reroute in your crisscross of the room tells you Ransom’s attention has fallen back to whatever article has caught his eye in this week’s New Yorker. Maybe he’d missed that wanton pulse through your system. The subtle shift of his hip and leg suggest otherwise. 

“There’s room for two.” His focus doesn’t waver from the glossy pages of the magazine he’s holding up, presumably reading. “– and plenty of time.” Only then does he tip the right corner down to settle you with a smirk and a raised brow. 

_Asshole_. 

You shake your head, gracing him with an eye-roll before turning your attention to the protective wrapping littering the middle of the floor. Some of it will be needed, once decisions are made, to be able to protect the artwork for transport or storage - all of that depending on the time frame he has in mind for the auction. 

Having been rejected, Ransom flexes the magazine to straighten the pages again, making it abundantly clear where his attention has gone. That won’t do. You hitch up your skirt a little on your thighs as you settle onto the floor to aid in maneuverability as to set to the task of organizing the bubble-wrap. If his gaze wanders to you while you’re working he might just catch a glimpse of one of the hickeys halfway up the insides of your thighs - or if the timing is right, maybe the purplish mark on your chest. 

“Those three leaning against the window there could go in the hallway upstairs. They go well together.” You swivel your attention from the task at hand to the three indicated pieces before turning your focus on Ransom. 

He hasn’t even lowered the magazine. 

You come to the end of the stack of bubble-wrap you’ve been working on and maneuver yourself up, standing to set the roll to the side of the room. “Unless you were planning on trying to auction them. As a set.” 

“Mpph.” 

A grunt is _not_ a reply, neither a noise of objection or assent. 

You set to work on the next stack of wrapping, getting it rolled together quicker than the last. Everything’s easier once you figure out a decent strategy. You settle a little further, moving from being elevated on your knees to sitting back and tucking your feet beneath you. You weren’t lying before when you told him you liked the piece that he’s had displayed above the fireplace. It would be a shame for him to decide to tuck that one away somewhere - but it was _his_ choice. 

Actually, it is really odd that he’s bothering to keep any of the art you’d acquired on his behalf. Finding yourself frowning at the mantel, you shake the expression, blinking it away as you tuck the ends of the bubble-wrap into the roll to hold it until the item is needed again. Ransom flips through a few pages as you set to work on the next stack, your mind wandering through the task at hand. Choices need to be made, decisions set, before the gallery team arrives. 

“How many pieces are you going to keep?” You attempt again to engage him, carefully flipping one of the rolls towards the outside of the room only to watch it bounce and ultimately topple the first roll when it tumbles to a stop. Rolling the second will cause less of a mess, but then what does it matter? “That is a start for how we can narrow this down.” 

You pull your attention away from the now-haphazard rolls of bubble-wrap to find that Ransom has finally lowered the magazine enough that you can fully see his face from where you’re seated on the floor. His attention is stuck fast, which is mostly what you wanted - except that you now need an answer from him. 

“Ransom?”

He lifts his gaze slowly, not the slightest bit of shame showing in his expression as those blue eyes lift from your legs and rake up your body, “Yea?”

“Your input?”

There’s that tiny shake of his head accompanying the shift of his hip, his grin growing as he settles himself back in his chair a little more, “You’re doing just fine.”

“I asked you a question.”

“I just answered a question.”

You quirk an eyebrow at him in return, considering how best to reply. You _wanted _him to be distracted by you, so why are you also annoyed as hell? You straighten how you’re sitting with your feet tucked beneath you, pressing your hands down on the tops of your thighs as you stare him down. “What if I choose the most god-awful color combination of the lot to put in your room?” 

“Something might happen to it.” He tips his eyebrows up before adding, “Accidentally.”

“You wouldn’t _dare_.” He might not care that Basquiats are extremely sought after _expensive_ pieces of art, but you do. 

“Anyway,” he lowers the magazine further, dropping it face-down into his lap, “what makes you think I’ll be the only one that suffers through having to look at it?”

You narrow your eyes at him as you translate that - his meaning being that you should show some compassion for everyone that would be subjected to the artwork on his walls, all the many women he brings home, you included. Keeping your mouth shut takes effort, but that’s better than airing a few more choice words in his direction - an activity that would only encourage him. 

Even your silence furthers his mood. He tips his head back for a second before lowering it again, his focus flitting to the ceiling before zeroing in on you again. “I meant what I said earlier.” 

Without thinking you lift your fingers, tipping your fingertips up to touch your neck just below your jaw. 

He shakes his head, his humor evident as his torso, hips, and legs all shift slightly, “No. Not that.” Ransom snags the cuff of his pullover to expose his watch, eyes dropping to his wrist. He settles both hands back onto the armrests of his chair, fingers thrumming the well worn surface, “That two can fit. And there’s plenty of time. Now. Are you going to come here, or are you gonna make me get up?” 

  



	8. Come a little closer I'll use you right up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Alternatively titled: touch ]

**R**ansom stops thrumming his fingers on the armrests of his leather chair, hauling himself forward from his reclined position without actually following through with the motion. He’s poised, waiting perched at the chair’s edge, for your answer. Are you going to get up from where you’ve seated yourself in the middle of the floor? Are you going to test to see if he’ll get up and come to you? 

He’d vowed, yesterday at the gallery, that he wasn’t going to do anything today other than sit and - how had he phrased it - _supervise the supervision_. But he’s been very hands on today. _Very_ hands on. 

He thrums his fingers again against the worn leather, just once from pinky to pointer, to make you blink him back into focus. “Well? What’s it gonna be?” 

You straighten your shoulders, holding his steady gaze as you wave to the art you’ve displayed around the edges of the room. “Pick one.” 

That slight frown that had appeared and then disappeared the moment he answered the door resurfaces to wrinkle the space between his eyebrows, gone again in a blink. He wants you in his lap, moaning at his every touch - for the room, the house, to smell like sex at 10 when the team sent by the gallery arrives. It’s not something that falls as high on your To Do list.

Ransom narrows his eyes, studying you, “Why.” 

“Pick one,” you shrug, “And I’ll guess if it stays or goes.” 

Ah, a new game. Not quite what he was after, but he seems willing enough to play. He tips his eyebrows up as his focus strays from your face. He takes his sweet time letting his attention drift. “– what’ll I get if you’re wrong?” 

You roll your eyes at him and counter, “What do _I _get if I’m right?” 

Terms are trivialities that can be ironed out later. Ransom flicks his attention away from you, darting his eyes over to the row of artwork displayed at the side of the room closer to the fireplace. “That one.” 

“Which?” He’d looked off to his right, meaning anything behind you or displayed to his left aren’t likely but that _could _be a misdirect. You run your fingers over the taut material of your skirt, slipping your hands down over your thighs to rest on your knees as you lean forward, shifting your weight. It isn’t to settle more securely on the floor but in prep for standing – not to go to him, but to retrieve the indicated piece of art. “Describe it.” 

“Red and yellow.” Ransom quirks his eyebrow at you. That detail doesn’t help narrow things down by much. Quite a few are in that color scheme. He thrums his fingers against the armrest again, perhaps giving you a hint without realizing it. “Black and white. Reminds me of boarding school, how we thought we were kings and nearly drove – oh.” He pauses, tucking his chin down a fraction, and takes a breath. “Naughty. Clever trick to get me to tell you what I’m thinking.”

“_Trumpet_.” Pleased that his eye has been drawn to it, you turn your attention to that piece without waiting for his nod of confirmation. There’d been a story told – probably one night surrounded by the rest of the Thrombey family – that had sprung to mind the moment you saw it in the listings. A note written home to Linda and Richard regarding Ransom’s foolishness – the ringleader in a group of troublesome boys. “1984. Acrylic and oil stick on canvas and just _where_ do you plan on putting it?”

Ransom shakes his head. That’s right – _you’re_ supposed to be guessing if they stay or go. This could eat up quite a bit of time if you play it right, particularly with the larger of the oversized pieces. Hard to say which he even has room for…

Your skirt inches up a bit more as you rise to your feet. You reach to adjust it back to where you had it, midway up your thigh, but Ransom clears his throat - the slightest movement of his head telling you to leave it. He tracks you from the middle of the room to the indicated art, motionless expect for the turn of his head and the lightest twitch of his ring, middle, and pointer fingers of his right hand.

“Stays.” You declare, tipping your head in appreciation of the art before turning to check his reaction, confident in your choice. “And I don’t need to be clever to know what you’re thinking.”

The pair of you consider each other for a moment, Ransom working his jaw from side to side before he hems and selects another piece without even allowing you to finish shifting _Trumpet_ away from the rest of the lot. You leave the next three he selects right where they sit – all designated as ones for auction – choosing to settle on the opposite end of the sofa that stretches along the side of the room towards the front door. 

Time continues to creep on and on, closer and closer to the 10 am arrival time for the few-man team the gallery was sending to install the pieces. _Piece_, you mentally correct. His descriptions are becoming increasingly careful, and increasingly vague. 

“Ransom.” Expelling a breath, you shake your head at him, “That could be – any of – _at least_ three of them. More details, please.” You wiggle your fingers in a mime of summoning those very details from the depths of him.

His eyebrows tip up before a broad, sly smile engulfs his face, “I could be persuaded.”

Persuaded. Right. Folding and unfolding your arms over your chest, you offer him a dubious look, “That so.”

“Mm.”

It’s almost too easy to wipe that smug expression off his face. He tips his head back as he watches you stand, clearly of the mind that you’re annoyed enough that you’ll be tempted to saunter over to fall within his reach. Instead, you pad across the room to the fireplace to retrieve your mug of forgotten coffee, now cold and only partially consumed. That was his fault, for distracting you, and yours for allowing yourself to be distracted. You can’t very well blame the art.

The squelch of the leather of his chair tells you he’s unhappy, but a glance over at him to check confirms what you suspect: he’s still seated. As always, it is his way or no way – he’s seated, just not reclined as fully as he was just a moment ago.

“You’re not going to ask me how?”

Touching your mug to your lips you almost take a sip but decide to lower the mug again to shake your head at him, offering him a quiet smile, “No. I know what methods you’d suggest.” You look away from him as he starts to shift his left leg back and forth, back and forth. There are still so many pieces displayed around the circumference of the room. “And I’d much rather figure this out before anyone else gets here.”

Ransom snorts, his chair noisily announcing how he’s sprawling out within it again. Always going out of his way to take up as much room as possible. Maybe that’s why he’s refusing to help you narrow down the art selections. He’s _enjoying _how the large canvases take up space.

With his focus safely squared back on the magazine you roam the room again, pausing once in awhile to consider one piece or another. _Exu_ should stay. And the rest? Was he serious in his intentions to auction the rest of them? Was that part of some understanding he’d come to with Harlan, perhaps… that he’d auction off some of the pieces and pay his grandfather back for —

The thought nearly makes you laugh aloud. No. Neither Harlan nor his grandson would _ever _come to any such agreement. They’d let it become a point of contention, doomed to boil over at a later date. Funny how ‘at a later date’ usually coincided with a family function.

You set your mug down to move _Exu _over to join the other piece, catching the tip of Ransom’s eyebrow quirking up. Again, there no voice of approval or disapproval – just letting you slide with the decision made. Maybe he’ll call everyone’s attention to it after work gets started, probably after everything’s been packaged in prep for being moved. He’ll make everyone stand around, uncomfortable, and then do twice as much work to undo something that’s already been done.

_Bzzz-zzz-zzz_

Ransom works his phone out of his pocket, emits a – _tsk –_ at the screen, and then answers: “Hello, Mother.”

Good. Another something to keep him occupied. He’s quiet, listening to her greeting or maybe the reason for her call. Linda never was one to mince words. Added bonus, with his focus turned inward you have a little more freedom to move around the room. 

“How did you—”

You start at his outburst, turning to find him scowling as his mother’s sharp words rattle the tiny device held to his ear. Linda can always be relied upon to sour her son’s mood, twisting him up a little more with every word.

He adjusts his spine, shifting his torso to settle himself back down into the cushions of the chair as he hems, “Of course someone told you. Ever well informed when it’s something that could benefit…” He pauses, pursing his lips before sucking in the lower one and slowly releasing it through his teeth. His eyes flick quickly over to fix on you, his gaze steely, “No.” 

Curiosity stirs within you, almost pulling you closer. Are you the subject of their conversation? Is it simply about the art? The purchase made at the gallery – broad strokes – and the upcoming auction, if he goes ahead with his plans as claimed.

You deliberately turn your back, but even that could be interpreted as eavesdropping. Not that you can make out a word of what Linda is saying but – still… It would be better to remove yourself entirely. Going out to the car is a no. Too cold and you didn’t bring your jacket in with you. It’s an oversight that you mean to remedy when the others arrive. You’ll ask one of them to snag it from your vehicle for you.

Coffee. You spy your own cup and immediately turn to look for his. You could busy yourself in the kitchen – wait there until the conversation is completed.

His attention has strayed to the opposite side of the room, to the glass blocks that still allow the morning light in but muddy the view of the drive up to the house. You mime the offer – _more coffee?_ – as you approach him, a frown forming as he studies your hands but clearing as he offers you a tight nod and you draw closer.

Keeping the phone pressed to his ear he reaches around himself to retrieve his mug for you, interjecting light words and noises all the while – either meant in response to questions posed in the conversation or just to interrupt her every few moments. Instead of handing it off to you he makes you wait, turning it up to his lips to pull whatever bit of liquid might still be contained into his mouth, and swallowing. His jaw pops as he opens his mouth again, still refusing to hand off the now empty cup, resting it – and his arm – instead on the armrest of the chair. “That’s not your call to make, is it.”

Aiming for as much patience as you can convey in your expression you press your fingertips to the back of his hand, trying to get him to relinquish the mug.

“To impress her?”

See. This is why you wanted to be elsewhere, occupied with fresh cups of… oh shoot you haven’t even picked up your own mug. Never mind that. You can bring the carafe back in with you if he’ll just give up his cup. He can say whatever he wants to his mother _after _you’ve gone into the other room. You’d rather not hear how he plans to twist –

Success! Ransom releases his mug into your grip but hooks the hem of your shirt with a finger and tugs you back towards the chair the moment you try to step away. He darts an eyebrow up at you as you scowl at him and silently mouth – _let go_ – only to have him shake his head in the negative in response. 

“Hmmph. What makes you say that?”

He tilts his head, his eyes drifting again to the opposite side of the room. His apparent focus may have moved away, but he keeps you hooked close with a finger caught in your clothing. As he listens, he turns his hand, allowing the hem of your shirt to fall free only to slide his index and middle fingers around your side towards the zipper of your skirt. It’s almost an absent motion the way he traces along the stitching but each time you sway to test if you can step away his fingers hook beneath the edge of the material again.

“That’s an interesting theory, _Linda_. But wrong.”

He hardly ever calls her by her name. It’s only ever when he wants to piss her off further. Not a good sign for the path of the conversation. Ransom stirs himself forward, shifting to reseat himself, stretching his legs out to trap yours as his hand drifts down from your waist, a quick maneuver to find the rucked-up bottom hem of the material already positioned halfway up your thighs.

You really should have fixed your skirt before walking over.

You hiss at him, eliciting a chuckle as his hand drifts up the inside of your thigh, the pressure of his palm keeping you fixed to the spot. Forget re-situating your skirt, you shouldn’t have overplayed your hand and forgone panties today.

Both of his eyebrows arc up as he discovers that fact, silent laughter breaking through whatever irritation his mother had stirred up. Ransom grins, leaning forward to watch your mouth drop open as his wandering fingers explore. “I’ve got ‘_that gallery girl_’ wrapped around my fingers.”

Reaching down, you only halfheartedly push at his wrist to try to maneuver his hand from between your legs. It just makes him redouble his efforts. Who is winning this game between the pair of you now? Are either of you even keeping score?

“Mm.” He grunts at whatever she’s just said. Or maybe in response to the way you’ve twisted in response to the way he curled his fingers. Hard to say which. “She’d agree with you, actually. I might ask her when she’s less busy… But I thought I might put them up for auction.”

That wins him a squawk of alarm over the phone. Not that you care. You probably should care. Had he said _might_ put them up for auction?

He’s grinning, happily driving two women crazy at once. “And mother? If I do, you’ll bid like everyone else.”


	9. You're an addiction I just can't shake

“_**S**hit_.” Ransom utters a sharp, short curse and slides his slick fingers away from their task, anchoring his right hand ever so slightly down your inner thigh as he shifts in his chair.

You loosen your grip on his wrist, taking a breath in the hopes that it will steady the way your knees are threatening to buckle beneath you. Damn Ransom and how good he is with his hands. Damn the way you want him. This wasn’t the plan for the day at all, but you’re this close to throwing the plan out the window all the same.

A quick check tells you what’s happened. He’d tucked his phone between his shoulder and his ear to free up his left hand – more than ready to follow along with the new plan – but only got his zipper halfway down before his phone had slipped from where he’d secured it.

His laugh as he twists further in the chair, mouth open with his jaw slightly skewed, tells you he hasn’t yet hung up on his mother. You’re caught somewhere between wanting him to leave the phone where it is so that the pair of you can get on with things and wanting him to redirect his attention _to_ said device so that you can route the moment back, get the day back on the correct track. There’s only a little over half an hour left, regardless of either scenario. Either way there’s cleanup to consider.

But – there – that might have been the sound of a car door slam. Maybe you don’t have upwards of half an hour after all. Using his distraction to your advantage, you pull yourself free of his grasp. It’ll work, so long as he remains seated.

Your movement pulls those piercing eyes away from the task of digging between the cushions of his chair, swinging them around to zero a frown in on you. “Shit,” he repeats. This time the utterance of the curse as it leaves his lips is light, his humor showing through even with his eyebrows drawn together. He knows how much you want him, and how much you’re fighting it.

_Bzzz-zzzz-zzz_

“I think I heard—” you tip your attention towards the front door. It’s a risk, moving your focus away. You only allow yourself a quick peek, one second, before you turn back to look at Ransom again. Internally you will him to – _stay seated, don’t move, don’t get up, don’t blink_. Laughing, you take another step or two to expand the space between the pair of you even though you want to do the exact opposite. “You need to answer your phone. _Your mother_. And – I think the team is here.”

Your bright humor stands in contrast to the sharpness of his. Ransom’s smile is predatory as he responds, shaking his head, “They can wait.”

“It’s – too cold out.” Finding the bottom hem of your skirt and giving it a tug you take another slipped side-step towards the door. It’s a little too tempting to agree with him, too, that the others can wait outside for a few minutes. Your body is providing a lengthy bulleted counterargument to the logical argument presented by your head, the first of which is simply an extended wail of frustration. 

_Later_ – you promise yourself – _later – _even as your body demands – _NOW_.

He’s up. He’s up and out of the big leather chair. Liar that he is, he _isn’t_ spending the whole day reclined on the furniture simply observing. That’s your fault, something you’ll happily own up to later. He’s up and his attention is focused solely on you. Not his slacks, half-undone that you itch to help him lower a little further, not the phone he’d lost in his chair, not the possibility of an early arrival of the install team.

_Bzzz-zzz-zzzz_

At least the call had dropped before he’d dropped his phone. When _exactly_ it had dropped is a question for another time. It’ll surely be brought up at some point – how much she’d heard after his assurance that she’d have to bid on the auctioned art just like everyone else. Try as you might you hadn’t been able to keep entirely quiet as he’d flexed those talented fingers between your legs.

_If_ he’s going to auction any of it. You hadn’t missed that jab he’d aimed at his mother.

“Fix your zipper.” It’s a fight to keep your attention focused on his face as you try to shake yourself into something a little closer to presentable. This wouldn’t be the worst thing your team has been greeted with but there’s no need aim for top twenty. “I’ll get the door. Let them in.”

_Bzzz-zzz-zzz_

You watch the way he shifts his body, the way he narrows his eyes at you as he sorts out which move he wants to make. He’s considering it, saying a mighty _fuck you_ to everything else – everything but the notion of fucking you.

Taking another step, not a half-movement but a full stride, you shake your head at him. Maybe he’ll give in, maybe he won’t. “_An_swer your phone. Before your mother –-”

For whatever reason that seems to do the trick. He presses his lips together and snorts a short burst of air out through his nose before slowly gathering up the bottom edge of his pullover to wipe his fingers clean. His expression turns flinty as he drops his hands to reaffix the button of his slacks and tend to the zipper, his eyes caught down to the left – not the floor itself, something unseen. “She’s probably already on her way over.”

It’s your turn to narrow your eyes, studying him. That was entirely too easy. But – maybe, probably, he’ll make you pay for it later. You still wait until he turns away from you to finally turn your back on him_._ Brushing your hands over your clothes for a final straightening of your appearance, you cross the remainder of the room to the front door.

Shoes. You forgot to slip your shoes back on. Oh well. You weren’t planning on running out to the car, anyway, just asking if someone would – you swing the door open but only find your car and Ransom’s parked in the drive. Blinking against the chill – is it getting _colder_ as the day progresses? – you shut the door again, coughing out a quiet curse, “_Fuck_.”

“That was the offer.”

You roll your eyes at his retort. Yes, it was the offer… one that you were, _are_, dangerously close to considering. That was the trouble with trying to tempt him, trying to tease him. You always ended up torturing yourself in the process. It’s hard as hell to guard against, one of the many reasons you don’t necessarily mind when Ransom disappears in the pursuit of other things that have caught his attention - the reprieve. 

Ransom is bent, digging in the crevasse between the cushions to try to find his still buzzing phone. His exasperation can be clearly read from his posture. You toss another point into your mental tally. His left hand is clasped in a fist, supporting his weight – his knuckles white against the armrest as he jabs the other hand around in search for the device.

_Bzzz-zzz-zzzz_

Was he right? Is Linda now on her way over? Does she simply want to supervise the installation? That’s only partially insulting. She thinks you and the gallery team can’t handle the job? But there’s the possibility that she’ll take one look at the lot of pieces and realize that they don’t fall in line with her son’s tastes. There was a distance there, a strain in that relationship, but to claim that Linda didn’t at least have _an_ _inkling_ as to her son’s preferences would be a wildly inaccurate insult to her intelligence.

She’ll likely have your head on a platter before lunch.

You need to get the situation under control. Ransom needs to make some choices, set-in-stone choices, regarding the artwork spread around the room. _And_ confirm if he’s going to try to completely nullify the whole point of what you’d done – the lesson you’d been hoping to teach him – by selling some of the pieces. Damn if he doesn’t usually find a way to twist things to his advantage every time.

First you need to solve the problem of what you’re wearing, or rather, what you’re not. “Fuck,” you shake your head as you repeat yourself, muttering as you wander further into the room, “I really should’ve worn underwear.”

It was more a statement meant to be under your breath than anything else. Possibly an important note to self for future reference. Ransom chooses to respond, chuffing out a laugh as he turns to slouch back down into his chair, the missing – temporarily silent – device held in his hands. “I’m glad you didn’t.” He adds an afterthought with the tilt of his head, “Mostly.” 

“I didn’t think your motherwould be present today.”

“No,” he acknowledges with a slow nod, “Just you, me – and the install team.” His expression flattens as he looks to the door, and then tips into faint amusement as his focus returns to you, “They’re not ready to get to work?”

You work your jaw, fighting the temptation to laugh by clenching your teeth as you continue to take slow steps further into the room. Is he suggesting that you told them they’d have to wait outside because they were early or is it his way of insulting the gallery team’s work ethic? Like he’s got room to criticize. You shift your body in a half-shrug, “False alarm, apparently.”

He keeps his eyebrows arched, his amusement shifting slightly as he watches you. Whatever he’s thinking it’s probably nothing good. “Then there’s still time to fuck you,” he juts his chin out in a quick motion, “in front of my favorite piece in the house.”

Your core clenches at the thought and you take a half-step closer to him. He’s waiting for you to argue against the suggestion, for you to try to debate him or reroute his line of thinking. When it doesn’t happen, his smile grows. It’s like he’s pulled an invisible string, reaching out to pluck it with nothing but words, reeling you in. Sucking in your lower lip, you turn to glance at the artwork hanging over the mantel, to _your _favorite piece of art in the house. Here? Among the Basquiats you’d forced on him?

Ransom’s chuckle pulls your attention back, “No.” He shakes his head, tossing his phone away from him with a little flip as he stands. It lands on one of the middle cushions of the sofa with a soft _thud_. There goes that possible interruption. “Not that one.”

_‘Not that one.’_ Ok… You flick your attention upwards in the direction of the one in his bedroom that you’d threatened to replace with the most annoying piece of the newly acquired lot.

“Wrong again.”

He is staying to the outskirt of the room, closing the distance in a way that makes you shift on your feet to track his progress. It helps to mask the way he’s got you squirming, your body begging for the promise of his touch. You knit your eyebrows together in a small frown, loosing your bottom lip from your teeth to reply with a dubious tone, “It’s not something new…”

His chuckle is almost silent. “No.” 

At the prompting of the drop of his eyes you lower your hands, curling your fingers into the material of your skirt to start to tug it up your thighs again. Where’s your willpower? Where’s the desire to _not _have the house smell like sex?

Gone.

“Would you like to keep guessing?” Ransom tilts his head towards the front of the house, etching a firmer scowl into your features.

Is this another hint? Another misdirect? Several Basquiats still line that wall, with a gaping hole betraying the space where _Exu_ had resided. But he said that it _wasn’t_ a new piece of art. This is punishment for making him make selections earlier, for making him play the selection game… although _you_ had then been the one guessing if he was selecting a piece that he wanted to keep or potentially sell.

You shake your head, shifting your hands from the material of your skirt to the waistband of his slacks when he comes within reach. He pushes your hands away with a swipe of his arm, his hands then moving to slide over your hips and turn you towards the front of the house. Seriously. It _can’t_ be anything but the Basquiats. He isn’t referring to the furniture, or the cabinetry that extends from the edge of the fireplace into the corner of the room. There’s nothing _left - _nothing else for him to be referring to.

Ransom presses himself against you, keeping one arm snaked around your side to hold you close as he steps the pair of you forward one pace, then another. Is he talking about the way the window frames the woods? The view allowed, and the way the trees are highlighted by the rays of the sun?

The way he’s grinding is all well and good but it’s not what he promised and there’s only so much time before the arrival of the others. You’ll play guessing games with him later – _it’s later **now**_, your libido coos with delight – if he’ll just stop fooling around. You emit a tiny whine as he hitches his hips, stalling the progress of the pair of you as he slides his hand down your abdomen. “Ransom….”

He tips your body forward slightly with his torso while his hand finds the edge of your skirt and hikes it higher, allowing his fingers access between your legs again. You try inching up onto the balls of your feet but with the way he’s got you held there’s nowhere really that you can go. He laughs, moving just enough that his voice echoing in his chest is no longer rumbling into your spine, “You really can’t guess? I thought you said you were _clever_.”

Yes, you’d made that claim earlier. You glance aside, arching a little as you look at him over your shoulder. God, you want to tell him to just - _shut up and fuck you_ \- but find him not looking down at you with some cheeky grin, but forward – out the large windows at the front of the house. There is no view of the driveway, and as you’d discovered just a few minutes ago there’s no other cars in the drive but Ransom’s and your own. Is this exhibitionist ass putting on a show for the forest creatures now?

It only takes you a second, turning your attention forward again, to figure it out. He’s putting on a show for himself.

A breathy, rueful laugh escapes you, “Narcissus would be proud.”

Ransom’s heated gaze drops from his own reflected stare to burn into you, a sharp smile etched onto his lips. Watching his movements mirrored back, you feel his free hand shift between the pair of you. You try to give him space without losing your balance, but he refuses to let you get far, his right hand shifting to provide a steadying grip on your hip. Ransom’s reflection opens his mouth when you feel the light flutter of cloth sliding down the backs of your legs and the delightful attention of his hidden hand as he aligns himself.

“You think I’m just watching me?” The smallest look of surprise flickers in the glass, his attention switching between the pair of you even as he attempts to question your assertion.

Yes. Yes, you do, hence the comment. He’s getting off on this. It’s a wonder he doesn’t have mirrors all around his bedroom for just this purpose. Maybe for Christmas -- 

With both hands sliding to get a more steadying grip on your hips he pushes himself inside you, his gaze locked on to the way your mouth drops open to loose a quiet moan. This wasn’t the plan. This wasn’t the plan but then this day hasn’t really gone to plan from the moment you walked in the door. But fuck the plan. This is better.

You voice a small protest as Ransom shifts his hips back without even coming close to fully sheathing himself inside you. That’s not the way the pair of you do things. You push each other to your limits, press boundaries – each of you determined to out-do the other. He’s not really looking for much of a reply in terms of one formed with words. Not right now.

His movements are slow, deliberate as he presses his chest against your back again, “I’m watching _you_. I’m watching us.” He thrusts again, both of you watching the reactions of the other, the combined reflection a creature with too many limbs, it’s movements bewitching. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Alternatively titled: reflection ]


	10. I love how you twist in my grip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( Alternatively titled: grip )

**Y**our morning is thoroughly derailed, and you are thoroughly fucked, with the day barely underway. Ransom has you on the balls of your feet and spiraling, twisting what you meant to happen to his advantage as he sinks himself deeper behind your defenses.

“Ransom.”

In the mirrored image of the window his grip slips as he shushes you, his left hand sliding from your hip to keep you planted where he wants you as he drifts his right hand up your body. He doesn’t pause to tug at your collar and expose the bite mark he’d left on your shoulder but anchors his hand around your throat just under your jaw. His grunts in your ear are a familiar echo, a welcome accompaniment to the tiny moans he’s driving out of you with every thrust of his hips.

He tips his head down, his eyes falling away from yours as his sure movements slow and stutter. You expect to watch him bare his teeth, nipping at the tender skin of your neck just below where he’s anchored his thumb. His mouth connects but the hard pinch of teeth doesn’t follow. Instead you catch the intensity of his groan, the vibrations trapped in the negligible space between his mouth and your skin.

The slightest pump of his hips as he pulses through his release is all that’s needed to trip you into your own orgasm. He slips his hand from around your neck, his head snapping up as he wraps his arm across your upper body. His steady grip on your shoulder keeps you close even as your body tries to fall away, his movements keeping the pair of you upright. Nonsensical words threaten to leave your lips, quick quiet curses or sounds of delight. But they can’t. Not with him. They have to stay hidden, held within.

Ransom’s hold slackens as you find your footing. You loosen a light laugh as the pair of you finally separate and you’re able to face him once more. It was less noticeable in the reflection of the glass, but he’ll need to go back upstairs and apply a little more hair gel before anyone arrives. Apparently at some point your hands had done a little wandering of their own causing his still drying locks to stand on end in places. Actually, he probably wouldn’t much mind the fact that he looks freshly fucked. It’s _you _that it matters to.

A check of your reflection shows you just as worse for wear, if not more so. With a simple straightening of his slacks and shirt, and the application hair gel, he’ll be back to presentable in five minutes or less. In comparison? You tug your skirt back to its modest length, already feeling the evidence of this most recent sexploit begining to drip down your inner thigh. Your shirt has been pulled out of shape – from his wandering hands or attempts to keep the pair of you standing, or both. There’s no easy fix for that, no quick remedy.

Except the last time you’d woken up at his place, what was that – a few months ago now? – you’d discovered a tucked away pile of forgotten belongings in your hunt for where he’d slung your shoes the night before. It was a mystifying discovery of relics kept rather than returned or thrown away. When questioned, he’d offered a lazy shrug from the general vicinity of the center of the bed, and the answer: _'Not my stuff, not my problem. Maybe they’ll remember them if there’s a next time. Maybe I’ll trash it all when I need the space.'_

There’s always the off chance there’s something salvageable among the items… if he hadn’t thrown everything out in the meantime. It’s a risk you’ve got to take, all because he’d refused to answer the phone when his mother tried to call him back.

With precious little time for questions or explanations you make the choice and turn for the stairs, removing your misshapen shirt before you’ve hit the first step. Your shirt has one good function left to it – you swipe between your legs to start to cleanup.

The moment’s pause required is all that’s necessary to finally pull Ransom’s attention away from straightening himself using his reflection. “Really.”

Movement accompanies his laughter. If he crosses the room and catches you… 

You shake your head at him quickly, ending that train of thought before he can put more effort into further derailing the day. “No. Ye- no.” Abandoning your crude attempt at wiping away the slick between your legs, you start up the stairs, “You haven’t had anybody come by to clean lately, have you?”

His curiosity keeps him from simply waiting for you to descend again, or at least that’s why you imagine he follows, padding quickly up the stairs behind you as you beeline for his bedroom. “No?”

You catch his puzzled reflection in the floor length mirror aimed at his bedroom door. Hardly surprising that his closet is open, the rows of disorganized clothes visible for anybody that comes up the stairs. What does it matter when you live alone, even if you have periodic guests? It must help to never expect to see many of them again. “Good. Maybe there’ll be something I can use.”

Realization dawns when you lift a random scarf to show him. His narrow, steely-eyed expression clears though his mouth remains in the same oddly held line.

Maybe this won’t work. You flit through a silky, slinky dress, another scarf, a forgotten jacket, and – ew, a pair of panty hose and forgotten underwear. Maybe that’s why he’s just standing there watching you rather than moving on. He’s two steps ahead, already sure that this option _isn’t _an option and is waiting for the provided amusement your reaction will bring when you finally draw the same conclusion. You’re not so desperate as to wear someone else’s dirty things.

The expulsion of air through his nose is answer enough as you finally sink to rest your weight down on your knees rather than continuing to stoop. A check over your shoulder wins you a sly smile and tipped eyebrow as he moves from the doorway of his bedroom, aiming for the master bathroom. “No one will care. No one will know.”

“_I’ll_ know, Ransom.” Frowning, you shove the pile of dirty clothes back out of view.

He’s moved on. You can hear the bump and shuffle of bottles as he moves around in the bathroom, preening in the mirror again knowing him. There’s still the hint of laughter as his voice echoes to you, “Then pick something and wash it.”

As you stand to prepare to wheel on him and tell him _exactly_ what you think of that suggestion something catches your eye. Several crisp white dress shirts hang together, tucked between the hodgepodge disorder of his nice slacks and patterned button downs. That could solve one of your problems. There’s no doubt if they’re clean.

You pluck one of the shirts off its hanger and slip it on while considering yourself in the closet mirror. It will just require – well, no bra, and a careful arrangement of the material of the shirt to keep certain bruises left by certain _people_ hidden, but it’s a solution. It’s not like you haven’t worn any of his shirts before. Or any of his _underwear_. Oh. That could be the other problem solved.

You leave the shirt unbuttoned as you turn towards his bureau. The baggy boxers like those he’d abandoned at your place won’t work. There’s always the chance he’s got a pair of more fitted briefs tucked away. For all the disorganized chaos of his closet you find what you’re after in his dresser drawers quickly enough, and are back to making adjustments to the way his shirt covers your skin while staring at yourself in the mirror well before he wanders out of the bathroom again, slightly more put together than he was before he’d wandered in.

Ransom meanders over to stand behind you and observe, his eyes making a quick appraisal before drifting back to the way you’re adjusting one sleeve, tucking the cuff securely in place. He’s noticed which shoulder you’ve chosen to leave bare, arcing an eyebrow as his focus drops and wanders again, “Found something that works.”

The smallest frown wrinkles the space just above his nose as you answer, barely lifting your attention away from the task at hand to lock onto his expression in the mirror. Easier – more fun for you – to watch him out of the corner of your eye and keep your chin tucked. “Mmmhmm.”

The other eyebrow lifts. Has he noticed that you’ve removed your bra? He hasn’t tipped his head or turned to see if he can seek it out. You’ve left it out on the bureau. Maybe he noticed that as he walked over. Yes. He’s definitely noticed the lack of a bra. There’s the barest pull to the corners of his mouth. It’s the way he narrows his eyes that you’re curious about. It’s an almost pinched expression. What is it? What’s the reason for it?

You lift your chin, clothing now situated to suit you, to square your focus more fully on his reflection. Your demanding question is poised on your lips, curiosity and a need for understanding driving your actions. _What. What’s wrong with what you’ve chosen? _

Ransom tilts his head, speaking before you get the chance to, narrowing his eyes to show only the barest bit of blue, “That’s my shirt.”

Yes. Yes, it is. You nod as your turn to face him, pleased by his expression. He’s momentarily frozen, stuck in the stranglehold of whatever is going on internally – somewhere between surprise, annoyance, puzzlement, and maybe a speck of not-quite-hidden delight.

Swiveling to step around him, you collect your bra and head for the bedroom door. “Yes,” your reply is tickled with laughter, “Problem solved _without_ any washing.”

There’s just enough time to return to the kitchen and start a fresh pot of coffee before noises from the driveway announce the arrival of the install team. Hopefully the fragrant, dark blend will mask the scent of sex. As you wander past the stairs, back towards the front door, you also catch notes of Ransom’s cologne and soap. Was it simply the finishing touches to his morning routine, something you’d missed for being focused on problem solving your apparel and being surrounded by the scent of him? Maybe even just the hint of him rising from the material of his shirt that you’re wearing as it heats against your skin?

“They’re here. I—” You’ve lost track of him after descending the stairs and heading to the kitchen. Probably back at his station in his leather chair waiting to give direction and dictate the actions of the day while not lifting a finger. Hard to say if that’s really what you want.

The squelch of leather from the direction of the living room confirms what you thought. He’s gone back to his earlier promise to watch, nothing more.

You mutter under your breath, holding a careful smile on your face as you reach for the door handle, “Guess I’m letting them in.”

The cold blast of air hits, once again reminding you that you _really_ should have put your shoes on before opening the door. A quick wave and shouted hello offered you start issuing directions once someone is in range of your normal speaking voice. You could slip into the living room and step into your shoes again, but you stay put, monitoring how the materials are unloaded. Everything carries the gallery logo somewhere on it: work bags of tools, tarps, even the ladders. The few-man install team has everything needed, and probably more, to make quick work of hanging the two pieces Ransom has selected from the lot… so long as he cooperates and makes clear decisions about _where _he wants the pieces to be hung.

You’re about to call back into the house to point that fact out when another car appears around the bend of the driveway, slowly approaching the house. The dark grey SUV is instantly recognizable as one of the Drysdale’s vehicles.

But it’s not Linda behind the wheel. 

Today might not end with your head on a platter, after all. You watch as the SUV parks in line with yours, tipping your chin towards your shoulder to alert Ransom of this new development, “Hey. Your father is here.”

“What?” The sound of shifting leather cushions quickly follows the pitched question, along with another sharply spoken word, “Great.”

Great. Yes. You couldn’t agree more, though from Ransom’s tone he’s none-too-happy about the arrival of a parent, regardless of which one it is. Should have answered that earlier call and maybe it could have been avoided. Your humor falters as Richard extracts himself from the vehicle, his voice raised enough that you can partially make out what’s being said over the bustle of the install team setting up inside.

“Honey,” the term of endearment leaves Richard’s lips without any warmth to it at all. His focus is angled down at the device held in his hand, “I just_ got_ here. Let me get to the door and—” He pauses when he glances up and finds you watching his progress towards the house. The same tight smile he’d been offering his phone, one that doesn’t reach his eyes by a mile, accompanies a tip of his head in acknowledgement of your presence.

His clear discomfort makes you squirm where you stand even as you return a polite wave. Richard on his own you can handle. Richard under the influence of Linda is something else altogether. They’ve probably been caught in this not-quite-argument ever since Ransom cut his earlier call with Linda short. You take a step back, your heel coming down on the soft leather of a loafer as you bump into a cashmere clad form.

Something _could_ lure Ransom from the cushions of the sofa after all.

“Son.” Richard’s tone sounds half-disgusted, half-defeated and he hasn’t even made it to the welcome mat.

Ransom fires back as you look at him over your shoulder, his expression hard, his smile humorless, “Father.”

A squawked noise almost resembling Richard’s name makes him jump, pulling a hard flinch out of you.

Right. Linda.

As Richard lifts the device and turns it you feel Ransom’s hand settle on your ass and shove you lightly forward. At least you weren’t wearing your heels, not that your weight on his toes probably feels much better with you barefoot.

“Ransom! Richard get me closer. Ransom _how dare you _–”

Ransom looses a put-upon exhale, “Hello, Mother.”

Wanting to get well out of dodge of her ire you try to slip down the hallway towards the living room. Entangling yourself with the work to be done will allow the two of them – three of them – time enough to settle matters. Ransom will refuse to bend to whatever demands Linda throws at him, Richard will look miserable and frustrated and echo her sentiments, and they’ll part ways much the same way they met – furious with each other and brooding.


	11. Keep all my secrets or tell all my lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( Alternatively titled: undone )

_‘**I**t’s not —————-.’_

Ransom’s voice comes unevenly, some words muffled and some crystal clear though he and his father had moved into a different room from where you and the installation team are working. Ransom leads the argument behind closed doors – the action dictated by his too-busy-to-be-present-but-still-making-her-displeasure-known mother, aided in her mission to keep the airing of dirty laundry somewhat contained by his unhappy-about-all-of-this father.

_‘Oh, yeah? Then explain it to me,” _Richard’s indignation hasn’t wavered even once, “_– uh, us.’_

Bits of what come next are garbled, lost behind the movements and tepid chatter of the installation team._ ‘—— don’t ——— explain **shit**.’ _

You don’t need to play Mad Libs to fill in the rest of the sentence.It’s far too easy to sympathize – a dangerous activity while still trapped under the same roof. As similar as your situation is to Ransom’s, you’d at least managed to distance yourself from your family’s reach. The 6-plus-hour drive from Boston to Baltimore is daunting enough to keep your people as physically distant as they are emotionally, something that suits all parties involved. For all Ransom’s talk about wanting nothing to do with his family, his actions say otherwise. Ever since you met him, lazing on the campus green with a book all those years ago, he’s always been quick to engage in any argument broached, always keen to twist the knife he’d jabbed in their backs, or sides.

_‘Are you ever going to grow up? Open your eyes to the way the world actually works.’_

_‘That’s a goddamn **riot**coming from you.’_

There’s a pause during which everyone else in the house deliberately attempts to be as noisy as possible. Nobody is listening in, waiting for the inevitable end as they pretend complete and total preoccupation with the task at hand. Linda must be weighing in, her words no less sharply delivered through the speaker of the phone than they would have been in person. Whatever is said, it brings another barked outburst out of Ransom.

_‘And there it is. You know what – I’ve got more right to the proceeds from those books—’_

_‘Son,’ _Richard’s control is long gone, strain pitching his voice, ‘_just cause you spent a summer with him doing god-knows-what…’_

Oh. You pause in the application of an identification label, staring blankly at the sequence of digits half concealed by your thumb. Ransom was always quick to throw that around at family functions when the subject of his work status – or lack of it – came up. His _summer internship_ with his grandfather, research provided to fuel his murder mysteries. That’s how he’d always played it, how he’d always presented it to the family.

It was one of the many conflicting things that you’d learned about him – that it _wasn’t_ simply that he’d done a little research for Harlan, but that he’d ghostwritten several of the books for his grandfather. Every time the subject was broached it wasn’t the rest of the family you watched for flinches of acknowledgement – it was always Harlan, the family patriarch, that you watched out of the corner of your eye, curious if he’d ever give up any of his closely guarded secrets. The reason why Ransom kept his mouth shut about it was easy enough to guess: the money that Harlan shoveled into the trust in Ransom’s name.

_‘Ask him. Ask granddad if he’s really up to 54 books_._’ _Ransom spits out the words moments before the partition bursts open and he storms back into the living room.

“Ransom!” Richard’s face is flushed a deep magenta, nearly purple in places beneath the spray-on-tan-of-leisure he sports. “What does that mean. Ransom. _Get back here_.” He’s still holding his phone out in front of him, almost like it might bite him at any moment, that or his wife might jump from it. On the screen of the device, Linda’s scowl matches the ferocity of the one worn by her son.

All movement in the house stops. Everyone is poised, waiting, watching to see what will happen next, only daring to blink and draw shallow breaths.

Did Ransom mean to out himself as the mind behind at least two of the books published under his grandfather’s name? Had his pride finally won out, or was it meant as a way to shake Linda’s faith in her father? You quirk an eyebrow up at him, halfway happy that he’d finally leveled that truth to his parents… that they could learn that fact about their son.

Shame it hadn’t happened under better circumstances.

Ransom stands in the middle of the room clenching and unclenching his fists. His low growl pulls your focus up to his mouth, his jaw held rigid, “Get out.”

Every set of eyes belonging to the installation team tip away from Ransom to square onto you. The workday has only just begun. Is everyone being thrown out of the client’s house – a client as important to the gallery as _a Drysdale_? You blindly affix the identification label to the packaging protecting the Basquiat, refusing to shift your attention away from Ransom while doing your best to keep from showing any reaction to the anger he’s hardly bothering to hide.

“Yes. That would be best,” Linda drops back into her composure first, running a hand down the front of her teal power suit as she nods on the tiny screen, “So we can sort this out _privately_. They can come back tom—”

“No.” You catch the flinch, the tinniest tell that ripples the skin beneath Ransom’s left eye that happens moments before he wheels around to face his father and proxied mother, “Everyone. Everyone get out.”

Swallowing, you blink at Ransom’s back. The discomfort that had been slowly building since Richard and Ransom had disappeared into the other room stirs and morphs into surprise, jumping from coworker to coworker until it makes the final leap to spear you. With nothing hung and several pieces still uncovered, unprotected, it’s unheard of to just up and leave. Richard and Ransom may be locked onto one another, but everyone else’s attention is on you. The installation team waits, uncertain, looking for direction.

Client says leave, it’s time to leave. You give a small shrug of your shoulders and nod, quickly changing it to a shake of your head at the silent question that follows from every one of them: _do we pack everything up and take all the gear?_ No. If things don’t settle enough for work to resume later today then you’ll just have to start again tomorrow morning. Maybe Ransom had foreseen this. He’d negotiated several days from your boss, hadn’t he?

Once again the asshole seems to be getting exactly what he asked for.

“Richard don’t take another step.”

With Linda only able to see the things she’s aimed at he is free to roll his eyes towards the ceiling, giving his head a little shake as he does so. He’s careful to keep his arm as steady as possible rather than let his movements and desire to head for the door be known to his wife.

Since several of the pieces are already contained in protective wrapping there’s less chance that Linda will be able to come as quickly to the conclusion you’d feared, even if she has Richard walk around the room to examine the rest. That small comfort only goes so far, but it is enough to tip you towards honoring his wishes. Ransom wants an empty house for the remainder of the day? You can make that happen.

As you open your mouth to speak you inhale, your lips emitting a soft _tsk_. The sound pulls Ransom’s scowl away from his parents, his sharp glare locking onto you. “We’ll be back to finish tomorrow,” you slip a carefully neutral expression onto your face, determinedly holding it steady as Ransom squints in your direction, his jaw slowly shifting side to side. He won’t find any push back from you. Not right now. “Same time, unless I hear from you sooner.”

The delay is an inconvenience, sure, but it gets you out from under Ransom’s thumb for a little while – a much needed thing considering how deep he’d driven himself beneath your skin this morning. There might be the slightest tinge of guilt within you as you shut the front door, watching the installation team load back into their vehicle… but ongoing battle between Ransom and his parents is _his _problem to deal with. He’s always been able to hold his own against them. Always had. Always will.

Explaining things to the gallery owner is about as much fun as sitting in traffic while needing to use the restroom, but he eventually accepts the situation for what it is and moves on to other things. There are other jobs to keep everyone busy, things to do both at the gallery and at the storage facility to prep for the incoming collection – the remainder of the Basquiats stored on Ransom’s behalf until he makes up his mind regarding the possibility of a public or private auction. 

It’s well into the afternoon when Ransom’s name pops up on your phone. Has he only just ousted his father and dialed-in mother, or has it taken this long for him to settle down after that flare in his temper this morning? You were waiting for a call, to be honest, to discuss what was going to happen tomorrow – that or no communication at all. It wouldn’t have been surprising for him to simply blow off steam in whatever creative way he could come up with and renew his antics upon the arrival of the installation team the following morning.

_‘I want my shirt back.’_

A simple, short, demanding text. No hint as to what happened with his parents. No hint of warning that his mother might be on the warpath, if she was still fuming or if he’d managed to get his father to leave shortly after you had driven away from his place. You half wonder if Linda could still be stuck trying to figure out the truth in her son’s claims – if she actually believed Ransom could so convincingly emulate his grandfather’s writing style. Even after sectioning the collection down to the few that had been published within a reasonably estimated time-frame Ransom had given you it had still taken you months to narrow your guesses down further.

_‘Ok. I’ll bring it tomorrow.’_ You pause before adding another quick message closely on the heels of the first response for clarification. _’10 am.’_

His reply is near immediate. _‘now’_

Now. Now doesn’t work for you. Now is unideal for so many reasons, but that was likely the point, the very reason why he’d said it.

_‘No. I’ll get it dry cleaned and bring it tomorrow.’_

You have things to finish sorting out. Notices to draft for the potential listing of art won’t just make themselves, if-and-when you can get him to make any solid decisions on that front. Between that you’ve got commissions to collect, people to talk into buying things they don’t really need for the sake of further padding your bank account.

Those thoughts bring the edge of a frown and move into adding another text to the sequence – ‘_Well done today telling them the truth. But… careful how much you push them. Might end up like me with your trust fund all tied up with conditions & strings.’_

_‘Not tomorrow.’_ He flat out ignores your warning, focusing instead on trying to get you to magically reappear at his house. ‘_Now.’_

Your turn for a single word in reply – _no_.

With that answer tapped out you set your phone aside and turn your attention back to the ducks you need to line up in a row. You did this to yourself, determined as you were to get his attention with the purchase of the artwork. Everything that resulted was part of the package.

A dull ache starts to form just above your eyes, just above the bridge of your nose. That’s your doing, too. Sitting back in your chair you straighten your spine, pressing your fingertips to the tender spot on your forehead and working them in small circular patterns, closing your eyes to the bustle of the gallery.

Ransom is waiting for you as soon as you close your eyes, the mental projection of him all too keen to show you all the lascivious things that could happen if you simply did as his text requested and left work now. It’s dangerous chasing those thoughts in public, particularly when you’re wrapped in things that belong to him. You_ swear _you can feel his hands snaking over your body, ultimately driving – as they always do – down to amplify the aching heat between your legs.

Fluttering your eyes open you tip forward and adjust the angle of your hips, clenching your thighs together as you fight to regain control. You’re stronger than the lust coursing through your system. No giving in to desire. Not like you did this morning.

It takes a few hours to get things settled, the files organized to your satisfaction – offers sent, drafts of notices written, paperwork duplicated, and tasks delegated for things needed that you couldn’t immediately procure. Your house calls to you: wine, an early dinner, and bed. It’s been a long day, longer than you’d intended when you got behind the wheel this morning. Is that your fault or Ransom’s? Both… if you were being honest with yourself.

The scent of him finds your nose as you shift into your jacket. It’s not the notes of his cologne, likely stirring up from the fabric of his shirt, but something that makes you contemplate your decision to head towards home. Home means a quiet house, dinner at a table set for one, and an empty bed….

You flip your phone in your hands, finally touching the screen to illuminate the device.

There’s a message waiting from him, delivered a few minutes after your final response – that last no you’d sent him.

_‘You’ll regret that.’_

You suck your bottom lip between your teeth, slow to release it. The delay in his response and silence that followed – along with the words he’d written – is telling: he’s furious you didn’t give in. It’s a wonder he hadn’t shown up at the gallery to cause a scene.

As you step out into the cold of the evening you shudder, as you tip your phone into your jacket pocket, desire once again welling up to play merry hell with your resolve as you walk to your car. “I already do, Ransom.” You mutter a quiet reply into the night, your body begging for the scorch marks his lips sear onto your skin. “I already do.”


	12. Don't make me do things you'll regret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Alternatively titled: fault ]

**T**he night is longer than it has any right to be, your bed refusing the comfort and gift of sleep. No reprieve found between the sheets, you wrap yourself in your plush bathrobe and wander the house, seeking out the space that will shake you free of this insomnia. Something has shifted, changed, though you can’t seem to be able to identify what. The feeling leaves you restless, ghosting from room to room, unable to find a place to settle.

If you’d caved, if you’d gone back to see Ransom you likely wouldn’t be having this problem. He would have left you mentally and physically exhausted. But that’s part of it, isn’t it? _He’s _part of what’s keeping you awake.

It’s not just the highs that result from the fabulous fuck sessions, the sexploits meant to thumb your noses at the expectations of your respective parents. You tried solving that problem on your own after a long soak in a hot bath. The pleasure found by your own hand had only served to fleetingly lull you into a false sense of satisfaction that had disappeared the moment your head hit your pillow.

The whitewash walls of your house offer no answers to the questions you pose. Your mood worsens with each pass you make, with every circuit of the house and return visit to every cushion, every corner of every room. For some reason you end up in the guest room, loosely wrapped in floral patterned sheets that you have no idea how you came to possess. It’s the only place you can’t smell him, feel him – the last place left untouched.

“Fuck.” You sigh out the near-silent curse as the hues of the room begin to shift in the pre-dawn of morning. You shudder at the thought of getting up, doubtful that you managed even an hour of sleep, but the day can’t present anything worse than the night. An early start will give you additional time to do what you want with your morning, allowing for some time spent at the gallery versus forcing you to focus entirely on the collision course that will land you square in Ransom’s sights.

By the time you’re dressed, downstairs, and consuming your first hit of caffeine for the day your mood has shifted in a better direction. The only power anyone holds over you is the power you give them. It’s about time you started telling Ransom no again, started finding distance between the pair of you again. Let his attention drift to someone else for a while. Maybe he’ll find a better fuckbuddy – someone better suited to stimulate and spur those deep seeded passions he likes to pretend he doesn’t have.

After breakfast you still find yourself staring into the recesses of your cabinets, not sure what you’re looking for. It’s still much too early to head into the gallery or stop by to pick up Ransom’s shirt. Restless, you start moving things around, trashing what you’re willing to part with – the few magazines you’d left sitting out after flipping through them – and relocating the rest to give yourself a sense of purpose, if nothing else.

At least you don’t look as tired as you feel. Catching your reflection in the hallway mirror, you find some comfort in what you see. The clean-cut dress is a silent message to Ransom that you won’t be spending all day humoring him or playing his games. You’ve got more to coordinate at the gallery than simply getting his maybe-so, maybe-not auction lined up. There’s also the artist exhibition to help prep for, the notices for which you’ve been ignoring every time they chime an alert.

Your renewed resolve gets you out the door, by the drycleaner's, and to the gallery before it starts to wobble. Insufficient sleep is to blame. It’s certainly not that you _enjoy _being the fuckbuddy that sometimes even challenges Ransom out of his comfort zone. It couldn’t be that.

You attempt to mentally iron out that unwanted wrinkle in the fabric of your life as you finally acknowledge and respond to the gallery owner’s reminder about the artist showcase. It turns out to be the perfect distraction, your curiosity pushing you to peruse the packet of information already collected and linked. Several artists catch your eye as you skim the files: three from the west coast, one from the midwest, the rest all from the eastern seaboard.

This is exactly what you need: to focus on the backgrounds of the talent that the gallery wants to pursue. Ransom will just have to – he’ll likely find someone while away on the ski trip he’s purportedly going on soon and voila!

Not twenty minutes pass and your inbox chimes again. It’s not a response from your boss about the showcase, as you expect, but an email of a different sort from a different sender: your family.

You skip the header and what clearly is your sister’s latest attempt at getting there to create a connection between you and your parents. They’d done better by her – or perhaps just realized that they didn’t have the energy to cope with two daughters that were complete strangers to them.

_As you will be traveling at the end of the month –_

A summons? That little glimmer of hope for the day evaporates as you click to reply. Today will clearly just be one of those days you want to be over, no matter what you do to try to pretend otherwise. They have ways of finding out how well you’re holding to the terms of your arrangement. There’s no need for a visit.

For how quickly the email appeared after your confirmation of the art expo their current source of information is easy enough to guess. It’s a new wrinkle that you’ll have to sort out sooner or later. You offer a now-standard explanation in return: your schedule is full, care of the job that _they_ had demanded you find, but you’ll answer any questions they care to send to you – in your own time.

They weren’t looking to know if you were enjoying yourself in Boston, not unless it would then turn into an analysis about your choice of places to settle. Why not New York? Why not come home to Baltimore? Why not let them use a few more of their contacts, now that you’ve established yourself a little in the industry, and see if they could open a door or two… It was always something they had set their sights on and wanted to push onto you – rooted, of course, in how it would benefit them directly, or otherwise boost the family name. Their motives always settled into one of the two camps: money, or bragging rights.

You wait for a follow-up email from your parents, their dry prose carefully worded to express their displeasure without betraying anything close to an emotion, but none comes. The lack of pushback from your family has you distracted and tense, hardly hearing the banter volleyed through the vehicle by the installation team for the duration of the commute from the gallery to Ransom’s house. Nothing said is at your expense, nothing that you catch, but you can feel it humming there under the road noise within the cabin – the questions, the jibes. You offer them half-focused promises when the subject of the events of the day before comes up. No, today will not be like yesterday. If you have anything to say about it the lot of you will have everything hung, packed up, stored away, and back to work as usual at the gallery before noon… two at the latest.

Carrying Ransom’s shirt hooked on one finger and draped over your shoulder you let the team lead the way up to the house. Ransom answers the door in much the same attire, but with the finishing touches that had been missing the day before. Today’s torso hugging sweater is dark teal, his slacks brown and lacking the pinstripe he’d opted for yesterday, his well-worn loafers offering his feet protection from the cold.

He gives you a onceover, narrowing his eyes in his return analysis of your appearance, the exact cut of your dress halfway hidden by your knee-length outerwear. Is it going to be _message received_? Is today going to go smoother, be all about getting the work done and moving on? When you swivel his shirt around your body in preparation for handing it off to him, he tips his head slightly, jutting his chin out just enough to give you your answer: _nope_. He’s clearly not swallowing the silent signal to play things cool today. He’s taking it as a challenge.

_Fuck_.

Ransom wiggles his lower jaw in a quick side-to-side motion, preparing to say something you’re probably not going to like as he looks down his nose at you. You’re having none of it. You shove the plastic wrapped shirt into his hands and settle him with a glare all your own. There. Apparel returned, even if it wasn’t quite in the timeframe he’d wanted. That text he’d sent – _NOW_ – it was a demand for more than the return of his shirt. No use trying to pretend otherwise, and no taking back the fact that you’d declined him.

“Welcome back.”

You ignore his tone, turning away from him to seek out and supervise the team as they set about finishing the job. There’s the sound of footfall and the shifting of the plastic protecting his freshly cleaned shirt to tell you that Ransom is following.

A black leather duffel is sitting at the bottom of the stairs, bulging a little with whatever has been packed within it. Is it meant as a show of being ready to get away, his attention already shifting on to the purported ski trip with his family?

You tip your chin towards your shoulder, briefly, while refusing to take the bait he’s laid out. “We’ll be finished a little after noon, I think.”

He grunts in response, not quite calling your bluff, but not agreeing with your estimation either.

Believe it or not that’s the way it’s going to be. You and the team will move on, store the pieces he doesn’t want to hang, or hang on to, and move forward with everything expected of the lot of you. Expected. Even thinking about the concept of _what’s expected _brings your shoulders up again, pulling along thoughts of that summons you’d been sent by your parents.

Frowning, you cross your arms over your chest as you slow your steps, stopping at the edge of the room to better supervise the team as they organize the pieces. Soon they’ll start carrying a few of them out to the van to create more room, beginning the process of restoring Ransom’s den back to its original arrangement. You may be free of Ransom sooner than you thought – free to stew, waiting for further argument from your family.

Right. Because that’s the better use of your time.

Time to start needling Ransom over his insistence that you be present. What better way to distract yourself than a meaningless back-and-forth? Before you can turn to face him he exhales a hard breath through his nose. By the time you’ve swiveled on your heel he’s already retracing his steps towards the front door. Is he going to scoop up that travel bag and leave you to close up the house, satisfied that the work will get completed? As you move to follow him you note the hint of whiskey on the air, but there’s no bottle in sight. A late night spent drinking to blame? Or maybe a splash of drink spilled, something unseen at the moment but found out eventually…

Ransom bypasses the stairs without snagging his bag, strutting straight past his front door. He’s headed for the kitchen. Curiosity, a foul mood that refuses to morph into anything else, and a desire for distraction, keep you in pursuit. Your annoyance spikes when you step into the kitchen to find that he’s tossed his fresh-from-the-dry-cleaners shirt over the back of one of the kitchen chairs, leaving it to wrinkle. The back-and-forth he’d had with his mother at the Thrombey house echoes in your head, making you grind your teeth all the more:

_ Why can’t you take care of your things?_

_ I did, Mother. Up in your furs. That’s why she’s all wobbly. _

There’s a partially consumed bloody mary on the counter, apparently what Ransom is after. Unlike yesterday there’s no newspaper spread across the countertop, no magazines discarded, nothing – save the drink – to indicate what he was up to this morning. Careful to keep your distance, you watch from the doorway to the kitchen as he claims and takes a long sip from the glass. That’s probably the source of the hints of whiskey you smelled earlier. Not his usual morning drink, you’re left to assume that it’s the choice method for battling how much he consumed last night, which brings the following question: _why_.

He’s quarter-turned towards you, not quite showing you his profile, but not quite keeping you in his sights. Your sour mood spurs you to scoff out a comment, unable to simply stand and watch him with the bumps and thumps of the install team in the background, “Breakfast of champions.”

Ransom swallows, barely tipping the glass down and away from his lips before rethinking the action, raising it to drain the last of the drink. He’s stalling… or, as the master of weaponizing silence, simply enjoying the fact that you’re unable to let the silence ride.

You need him to engage and give you a place to focus your aggression. “Must’ve been some night.”

_Come on, Ransom. Argue with me_.

No reaction. He doesn’t even flinch. Instead of setting those blue eyes on you he swallows the last of the blood red mixture and returns the glass to the countertop. Without a word he puts his back towards you, focusing instead on the refrigerator.

Making himself another? Some night, indeed.

You shake your head, fighting to keep the thought of him drinking the night away in the company of someone else from gaining too much traction – particularly when you spent it restless and alone. Hard as you fight against it, it still finds a foothold, intertwining with your irritation, “Some night in the company of some girl.”

_That_ breaks through the determined focus on mixing his next drink. He sets the components down, forgoing the most important part – the liquor – and aims a hard glare across the kitchen. The deep edges of his frown age his boyish looks, the slouch of his shoulders betray a night spent with little sleep. Like recognizing like, you feel a sympathetic pang bubbling up in the swirls of irritation. Aside from the hangover, you’re pretty much in the same boat – so long as you ignore the fact that his restless night was spent entirely different than yours.

Sleep. That’s all you want. _Need._ Sleep – that blessed feeling of being well rested. But really what you’re craving, what might at least serve as a more immediate fix, is coffee. He can keep nursing that headache, that weariness, with mixed drinks all he likes but _you _plan to battle yours with caffeine. Lots of it.

You swing your attention over to carafe, belatedly realizing that the scent of his favorite rich dark brew is missing from the house this morning. Knowing he prefers whole beans, grinding enough to brew and leaving the rest to sit, you exhale a warning, “Go nurse that hangover somewhere else so I can make some coffee.”

“Don’t you have some art you should be watching them hang?”

There’s the snark, the bite to his tone that you were trying to summon. You keep your satisfied smirk hidden from him, focusing on the cabinet doors behind which sit the needed supplies. “They know what they’re doing,” you deflect his accusatory tone with a shrug. The aroma of the beans as you go about prepping the grinder knocks you off the course you were intending, away from the path towards an argument, giving your subsequent words more the air of conversation. “With so little sleep they really don’t need me hovering.”

Ransom doesn’t miss the chance to jump on that quiet assertion, “And who kept _you _occupied.”

_You._ You shove aside the first word that wants to tumble from your lips, and the thought that follows._ None of your damn business_._ You. **You**_**. **You try to shrug off the sharp jab of his words, dumping the beans into the grinder and pressing the lid down to have it _whirrrrr_ to life with slightly more force than entirely necessary.

** _SSSSKKKKRRRRRRRRR ---- _ **

The machine vibrates beneath your hand as it whirs away, creating the fine dust that is required for his coffee maker. You should make something up to answer him just to see him narrow that glare a little further.

** _RRRRRGGGGGGGRRRRRRRR----_ **

Or maybe see how well he can balance a discussion about how things went after you left yesterday on top of the idea that you spent the night with someone else. He always adores giving you conversation whiplash, making _you _unsteady. Turnabout is fair play.

Not that he’s entirely to blame for the way your night went, or your morning, for that matter… but he had a hand in it. If you admitted the truth, that you’d fought with yourself all night long over the fact that you wanted to do exactly what he said? He’d be all too delighted to use it to his advantage, or end the friendship, just like he promised all those years ago.

Those were the rules.

** _RRRRRRNNNNNNNNNNNN_ **

He really shouldn’t keep feeding that hangover with alcohol, regardless of how irritable you feel. Tried and true though the method may be, it’ll only make things worse in the long run. The least you can do is offer a reminder that he might make more headway if he switches over to caffeine. As you tip the lid up to prepare to pour the grounds into his machine you turn, sentence halting as you glance over your shoulder, “Would you like a – cup?”

Ransom’s bloody mary sits on the counter, right where he set it down in the middle of making it. The man that went to the trouble of mixing that bright red drink? – gone.

The triumphant feeling for successfully running him out of the room lands somewhat off-center. You got what you wanted, a little more distance between the pair of you, yet once again you’re left unsatisfied.

While waiting for the coffee to brew you start to wrestle yourself out of your jacket, only to hear the pulsing tones of your phone alerting you to an incoming call. Your boss – checking in to make sure there isn’t a repeat of yesterday? Perhaps a client has arrived at the gallery and is requesting your presence? _Anything_ that gets you out of here sooner is welcome.

That fervent wish to be anywhere else is probably precisely why the caller ID reads out a 410 area code. Baltimore.

_Fuck_.

You’re stymied for all of a moment, wondering what might happen if you just hit ignore, but then your own warning issued to Ransom the night before echoes in your head: _careful how much you push them_. Your past actions were the reason your trust fund access is as limited as it is.

“Hello?” You try to keep your voice down as you accept the call and hold your breath while waiting to hear which member of the household is on the other end of the line.

“Hey.”

It’s your little sister. There was just enough of a delay before her light, polite but informal greeting to make you absolutely sure that she’s sitting in the same room as your parents, the three of them exchanging falsely pleasant smiles. You squint at Ransom’s abandoned drink and start to pace. “Can I call you back? Now’s not great –”

You can all but hear how hard she rolls her eyes and carries on in an uncanny mimicry of your mother’s tone. And to think, that could have been you if they’d wanted to bother with having a relationship with their offspring rather than foster you off on caregivers. “Talking to us never seems to be ideal, for you.”

“Hannah, I’m at a client’s house. Whatever this is – it can wait.”

“We’d like to coordinate when you’ll be here for the showcase.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Wait…” There’s another pause during which you catch the bustle and bump of movement, along with the click of a door. When your sister drops the detached politeness act you put two and two together: she’s moved into another room. She’ll still report back whatever has been said but she’s less likely to be speaking in code, now. “Look I get that you get off on being adversarial—”

“Good word usage.”

“Thank you – towards them. And really? I love it. It makes me the golden child by default.”

You circle back towards the percolating coffee, feeling halfway cooped up in Ransom’s kitchen. “Name one time when you _weren’t _the golden child.”

“—but sometimes your fuckery fucks us both.”

“Talk to me about being fucked over by them after you graduate and move out of their house.”

“Can’t you pretend to care?”

That one stings. You tried keeping her in your life, being involved with hers as she grew up, but the way your parents doted on her made that difficult. She didn’t understand the chasm that existed, or your disinterest at shouldering the sole responsibility for building any sort of bridge. _Tsk_ing, you sidestep her accusation, “I have two months. Tell them – tell them there’s no reason they can’t wait till then.”

“Most people don’t view the holidays as a trial.” Hanna pouts.

You cough out a laugh, struggling to keep the kitchen from grasping every word that you say to slingshot through the house, “Have you _met_ most people? That’s _exactly_…. oh, never mind. Look, I really need to go.”

“Please.”

“Wow.” You trace your finger through some of the condensation forming on Ransom’s abandoned glass. “Did that hurt?”

“You’re such a bitch!”

“Yea, well, I learned from the best.” Idly curious, you lean to sniff at Ransom’s drink to see if you can pick out the various ingredients he used. “Not that Karen and the matrons at Mount Marie didn’t do their best…. How is Karen, by the way?”

“Come home and see for yourself.”

From her tone you can tell she thinks she’s got you. Poor sweet attempting-to-manipulate-but-way-out-of-her-depth child. “I’ll just set a reminder to call her later. I’m hanging up now.”

“You know I hate being the go-between. Just do what they want. It’s—”

“Please don’t say easier.” You cut her off before taking a breath, inhaling the aroma of coffee that is much needed in your system. There will probably be enough brewed at this point… Time to get off the phone. “They can grill me all they want in two months, or they can email whatever it is that’s so important to know _now_.”

The stamp of her foot on carpeted flooring accompanies a heavy huff she exhales, “God! Just because you didn’t get the childhood you think—”

She’s still ranting her frustrations as you say goodbye, probably a little too brightly wishing her well with her report back regarding the conversation. You’ll likely pay for it, either in the questionnaire sent digitally, or during the visit in a few months’ time. The benefit, for the moment, is that the urge to start an argument with Ransom has been satisfied by the exchange.

Before fixing your cup of coffee you toss your jacket over the back of the chair next to the one where Ransom tossed his dry-cleaned shirt, vowing to yourself that you’d get that shirt where it belonged before leaving the house. If not getting it upstairs and into the closet, you’ll _at least_ get it to the banister at the bottom of the stairs. The wrinkles he caused will be his to deal with.

You juggle your mug and the dry-cleaning, feeling a little more at peace as you prepare to exit the kitchen, but at the last minute reroute to retrieve Ransom’s drink. Wherever he’s gone he’ll be needing it. It takes another quick moment of problem solving to figure out how to deposit Ransom’s shirt at the bottom of the stairs without spilling either drink, but you manage. From there you just head towards the noise.

The team has all but gotten the furniture downstairs pushed back into place. Had you taken that long dealing first with Ransom and then on the phone with your sister? A glance out the front windows answers where your team is: working on loading up the art into the van. They’ve clearly gotten the un-needed tools stacked and stored to their liking. The art is always the last piece of the puzzle, aside from the ladders that are carted around on the roof of the vehicle.

But where is Ransom? Not out supervising the way the van is being loaded. Not stretched out on his leather sofa. Not pretending absorption in a magazine, tucked into his chair. The rustle of paper and a dry cough pulls your attention towards the dining room to find him tucked in at the table, leaning forward to balance on one elbow, taking refuge in the same room that he’d vanished into the day before for his unexpected interaction with his parents. One of the pieces hangs on the wall opposite him. He’d likely watched them hang the piece and then couldn’t be bothered to follow when they moved on.

“That looks good in here.” You carefully set his drink down on top of the discarded pile of newsprint to his left, swinging your attention to the art on the wall. It suited the room well enough that it could have been designed around the décor from the start rather than being a new addition.

“Hmm.”

His quick grunt makes you frown as you turn back to him, catching the wince on his face as he swallows a bit of his bloody mary. Maybe you should have brought him a coffee, after all. “You disagree? Better tell me now before they pack everything up.”

Ransom swallows as he sets his drink down, roving his tongue over his teeth behind closed lips before giving his head a careful shake, “No. That was agreement.” He arches his eyebrows up slightly as he swivels his shoulders away from the table, twisting in his seat to face you, “Nowhere better suited, anyway. Unless you have a plan for where to move the tv – hang it on that wall…”

“That would be _your_ problem to solve if you wanted it in there,” you turn on your heel to glance back into the living room at the wall opposite the fireplace where the giant flatscreen hangs. The team leader of the installation team gives you a little nod-and-wave as he reenters the room – indicating that things are almost set for your departure – prompting you to turn back to face Ransom again. “But if that’s what you want, we can always wrap the tv up in packaging until…”

Something about the way he’s flattened his expression while your back was turned brings your guard back up. You know better than to ask him the reason for it, though. Open a door and he’ll gladly step right on through it, wearing a devilish grin.

“Things are getting tight in there.”

You swap your light frown from Ransom over to your coworker. “What?” There should be _more _room in the vehicle now that some of the artwork is hanging on the walls. Oh – but you’d taken things down in order to make room for the new art, hadn’t you... plus the space the tools took up.

_Shit. _

He answers, shifting an uneasy look from you to Ransom, and back again, confirming the conclusion you’d just drawn. “With the packaging and the tools, we, um. We _might_ all fit?”

“That’s fine. I’ll take her home.”

“What?” You repeat yourself, but word comes out slightly higher in tone than the previous utterance as you fix your focus on Ransom.

Ransom lifts his arms, stretching his shoulders as a smile slides into place. He tilts his head, ignoring your coworker’s hesitant muttering, all but daring you to contradict or decline his offer. _He’ll _drive you home? Please. You’ll end up calling a ride _and_ paying for it, and both of you know it. A dull ache is starting to make itself known, forming behind your eyes and spreading fast.

“I’ll take her home.” Ransom flicks his eyes away from yours for a second, glancing at your coworker as though to say – _stop his uncomfortable rambling before I MAKE him stop_ – before returning his attention to you.

You clench your teeth, granting Ransom a half-twitch of your lips before setting your mug down on the table and adopting your ‘_The Client is Right’_ persona to assure your coworker that this new plan is for the best. You should have seen this coming this morning. If you hadn’t been sleep-deprived and juggling an unexpected interaction with your family, you might have caught the complication. Now – you’ve just got to make the best of it.


	13. You asked for this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ Alternatively titled: luck ]

.

“**D**o they know how often everything out of your mouth is complete bullshit?”

You exhale, turning to put your back to the drive where you’d just watched the taillights of the gallery van disappear from view. It’s too late now to try to squeeze into the gallery van and escape along with the team, never mind what you’d told them. It had been _his _idea that you’d sold them, but – sure – it’s _you_ that spouts nothing but bullshit. Ransom’s bag, staged at the foot of the stairs to indicate his readiness for departure, is the first thing to win your glare, then you shift that same deep frown in the direction his statement had originated.

Easy enough to pinpoint where he is. He's still seated at the dining room table, newsprint spread out on the table before him, evidently content to remain where he’d planted himself. As tempting as it is to follow that diluted siren’s call – if only to latch your hands around his neck and strangle him – you hold firm in the entryway. Returning to the dining room is simply playing his game, showing just how deep under your skin he’s gotten, and that’s not the way you intend for the day to go.

The light rustle of the paper all but decides it for you. While it had been a blessing to have him out of the way while the team performed their final load up, allowing you to supervise without having to have someone undermining your every decision, his prolonged disinterest now serves to further grate at your already frayed mood. You know what he thinks of your job – of _any _job. He doesn’t need to rub it in further with his perceived indifference for the goings on when your job brings you into his house…. But then that’s his way, isn’t it? Find a sore spot, and push.

Prolonging your stay, agreeing to any further time spent in his company, had been foolish. The song and dance you’d performed for your team had a ring of truth to it – there _was _business that needed to be discussed – it wasn’t pressing enough that it couldn’t wait. Hell, you can forward him the digital copy of the relevant files from the safety of the gallery.

The moment you turn towards the kitchen, assured steps taking you closer to the chair where you’d thrown your jacket, he pipes up again, “Your mug’s in here.”

Asshole is likely holding that very mug hostage, but an additional caffeine fix isn’t what you’re after. You’re _also_ not after that little boost, the small smile that tries to attach itself to your lips at the thought that he’s tracking your movements in the house. You shake the frown back into place as you reach the chair and immediately begin digging into your jacket pockets.

“Not what I’m looking for,” you murmur a response as your fingers finally land on what you’re after: your phone. “I’m setting up a ride home.”

Home isn’t exactly correct, though, no matter how much you want the day to be over. Collapsing in bed and finding your way to a hopefully restful sleep will have to wait. You’ve got to go back to the gallery. There’s work to be done – art to sell, files to send, correspondence to answer… and your car to retrieve from the lot.

A low noise of displeasure from behind you tells you Ransom has finally stirred from the dining room to join you in the kitchen, ill mood and all. Even doing your best to regain your usual poise as you exhale and turn to face him you know it’s far from hitting the mark. He’s got that look, off kilter as he himself seems, that tells you that he knows your façade is just that.

“What about the art?”

“What _about_ the art?”

The sharpness in your parroted response makes him twitch his eyebrows up a fraction before he puffs out another short burst of air through his nose, his expression of amusement disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. He doesn’t block the doorway for long, shifting his attention to the cabinets next to the refrigerator, moving at a deliberate all-the-time-in-the-world pace, “Thought you wanted to get that settled. Keep me _quiet_ about what you did with my money.”

It takes you a second of staring at his back to absorb what he’d said. He’s wearing one of those stupid smirks of his when he turns back around, the faint spiderwebs of red around his blue eyes doing nothing to lessen the pleased-with-himself expression.

_Asshole!_

Wasn’t the understanding that you’d both put your failed attempt at teaching him a lesson behind you? You have enough that you’re trying to outrun without adding this to the mix as well. You abandon your phone on the kitchen table before taking a step towards him. Common sense says you should be doing your best to shut him down or shut down your responses to him, but anger, frustration, and desperation have taken control. “You said you went to your grandfather. That Harlan…”

“Yea,” he takes a swift sip of his drink, dropping a squinted glare down at the glass before setting it aside on the countertop. His frown recedes as he licks his lips, clearly pleased at your reaction, “But maybe I want that income boost locked in sooner rather than later.”

Sooner rather than later. Hanging onto the lot would better benefit him in the long run but Ransom hardly seems interested in settling in for any such debate. In several quick strides he’s back across the kitchen, leaving you with the choice of following on his heels or staying put and shouting at his back. You opt for the former, shaking yourself into motion just in time to catch him turn to start up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. “Then maybe I should be at the gallery finding buyers. Not wasting time here.” 

He's nearly to the landing when he responds, “No. I want a private auction.”

_Oh,_ if you weren’t a flight away from the man you want to strangle. You do your best to shake the urge your brain is sending to your fingertips, your gaze falling to the floor at the foot of the stairs, on the packed bag he’d staged there. If he wants the proceeds _sooner rather than later _why does it matter so much to him how you go about arranging that outcome?

The answer is simple: he’s trying to make it as difficult as he can.

The landing is empty when you look up again. You should just leave him to his horrible mood, call that ride and get on with your day. His threat to expose the truth has less bite to it now that he’s allowed it to go so far. You start to turn to return to the kitchen, but your gaze falls on his shirt – the freshly dry-cleaned shirt that he’d insisted you return the night before that he’d left draped over the bannister. Seeing it to the proper place, hung up in his closet, is the last thing you’ll do before leaving.

The tangle of his sheets supports your theory that his night was just as sleepless as yours, that and the liquor bottle perched on the top of a stack of books. He’s not collapsed face down on his bed, the tangled mess of sheets hidden beneath him – all the better to get the shirt into the closet and get out. A liquor bottle is perched atop a dangerously stacked set of books, making you wonder which of those pastimes – reading or drinking – he’d resorted to when sleep proved elusive.

Casting a glance toward the master bathroom, the only place in the room where he could be hidden from view, you head for his closet to shove his shirt in with the others. “If it’s just to annoy your mother, and hold an auction while the family is away on the trip, I can just as easily—”

“She can multitask with the best of them.”

To your surprise his words don’t echo through the bathroom, but from the entrance to the bedroom. Ransom’s tone, if you didn’t know better, would almost suggest an admiration for his mother – or at least that certain attribute of hers. The thought brings with it a hard tang of jealousy of their relationship, as complicated as it may be, and a renewed concern over the summons you’d received this morning. Rather than allow Ransom to catch that vulnerability you take your time replacing his shirt, and then run your fingers over the other articles of clothing to adjust the way they hang.

Ransom looses another noise of displeasure, the scuff of his shoes on the floor announcing his slow approach, “What, no smart answer for that?”

You roll your eyes as you start to step away from his clothes, kicking the accumulated pile of dirty laundry. The shift of the pile exposes something familiar, something forgotten – your shirt from the day before. Had you really dropped it in the closet? Wasn’t it out near the dresser or closer to the full-length mirror? You quickly bend to retrieve it, absently starting to fold it as you right yourself again. “You know, sometimes the best answer is no answer.”

A hard crease mars the space between Ransom’s eyebrows, the annoyance in his glare matching what you’re feeling and trying to hide. He works his jaw, chewing his words as he shakes his head side to side. You hear his disbelief in the way he exhales as he pivots, veering to collapse onto the bed. You don’t wait to consider why he’s petulantly launching himself at his mattress, not with the pathway to the bedroom door – and your escape down the stairs – left wide open. _He _may be able to spend the rest of the day lounging around, but _you _have a long list of things to tend to, all dependent on you getting the hell out of this house.

“Enjoy your trip.”

His three words uttered freeze you at the top of the stairs, your tentative grip on the railing all that keeps you from taking a nasty tumble, your stomach dropping as though you had. Baltimore. The summons you’d received this morning. Did he have a hand in it? You wheel about, returning to the doorway but not daring to step further into the room, “Excuse me?”

He's got the bottle that had previously been perched on the stack of books by his bed. Is that what lured him up the stairs? And why he was making a face at the drink he’d been nursing? Ransom makes a show of swallowing and adjusting his grip on the neck of the bottle. There are no answers in his features, not in the ghost of a smile that pulls at his lips but doesn’t touch the rest of his face, or the way he’s casually reclined on the bed, one leg dangling over the side of the mattress. How is it that his presence is so consuming when he’s sprawled out in such a way?

Finally, he breaks, a snort of laughter accompanying the shrugging-half-roll of his shoulders as he tips his head back to rest it with a soft _thunk_ against the wall behind him, “Or don’t. All that new talent, all those artists to try to seduce. You’re usually giddy for it.”

The showcase. You try to shake off the way he’s looking down his nose at you, his focus hawk-like. He’s just talking about the artist showcase and the trip you’ll be taking on behalf of the gallery. You force yourself to lower your shoulders, only managing to shift them a fraction. He may have threatened to reveal the truth to your boss, and actually told the truth to his grandfather – all to solve the problem of what you’d done to his bank account – but he’d never stoop to ratting you out to your family. There were lines even he wouldn’t cross.

“Been a little busy lately, you prick.” You lean against the doorway, giving yourself a moment to find your footing before you attempt the stairs again. “Haven’t had much time to think about it, much less plan.”

Ransom’s eyebrows arc up before creasing together once more as he studies you. “And who’s fault is that.”

Always so keen to play the victim, always placing blame anywhere but on himself, Ransom knows exactly who is to blame. But he’s never one to claim fault, if he can help it. Crossing your arms over your chest, you narrow your eyes at him. You know that look, and you know that tone. He knows exactly how off balance you are and is loving every prolonged minute of it.

Damn if you’re going to stand around further fueling the situation. You unclench your jaw only to shake your head, breathing out as you turn your back on him. “Whatever. Check your email, later. I’ll send the pertinent files for your approval.”

A dry laugh precedes a groan and the rustle of movement. “Fine.”

You pause at the top of the stairs, unsure if this urge you feel to turn around is rooted in the desire to argue further or just clear the air of whatever assumptions Ransom’s made. He _wasn’t_ telling the truth when he told your coworkers he’d drive you, right? Never mind the fact that you’d rather face off against your parents than climb into the car with Sir Hangover, who has begun the process of climbing back into the bottle. He’s probably just rearranging the way he’s sprawled out on the bed. Probably. The danger in turning around to check lies in the fact that you’re sorely tempted to collapse onto the mattress, too.

“Thought you were _leaving_.”

Ransom isn’t brooding in bed after all. Grinding your teeth, you turn to scowl at the rumpled, annoying, annoyed asshole. “I _am_. But actually – where’s your phone?” 

“What? Why.” He may question your demand but he’s already digging around in his left pocket to retrieve the device.

As you close the distance between the pair of you, you hold out your shirt, offering a trade. With one hand already occupied by the liquor bottle he seems to be clinging to for dear life, he’s got no option but to exchange his phone for your shirt, just as you plan. As soon as you have possession of his phone you offer him a smirked answer, “To order a ride. _I’m _not paying for the car service to come pick me up.”

Ransom drops your shirt as you backtrack, quickstepping to try to get out of his reach. You’re not fast enough. “So I’m paying? Like hell.” There’s whiskey on his breath and seeping from his pores, blending with the scent of his cologne as he tries to reclaim the device. “Charge the gallery.”

His momentum swings the pair of you in a dangerous ballroom dance across the landing towards the stairs.


	14. Beg barter and steal pieces of you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ Alternatively titled: push ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might have poked and prodded Ransom a little too hard in my frustrations over not writing for such an extended period of time. I hope this makes up for it. Also - hello smut chapter.

** **

**A**ll this – a whirled waltz that makes the house spin around you – for ownership of a phone. You’re not dressed for keep-away, though, your heels putting you at a disadvantage as the pair of you move across the landing. You parry Ransom’s tilted grab for the device by leaning but then you feel his shin connect with yours and you wobble. A nudge of his hip is all it takes to fully set you off balance and then _THWACK_, he cracks the side of his hand on your wrist. The jolting blow wins him what he’s after, his phone out of your hands. There’s hardly time to wonder if he even thought for a second about the consequences of the action – the device skitters across the hardwood floor to _thunk_ into the baseboard of the far wall.

If you’re going down, you’re taking him with you. You manage a fistful of the dark teal material of his sweater with one hand but can’t pull the other arm up quick enough. Ransom grabs your still-throbbing wrist, further locking the pair of you together as you spin towards a nasty tumble down the stairs. He gives your arm a hard yank, his efforts anything but helpful. Already off-balance, you keel further, just in a slightly different direction. For the way you have his sweater gripped Ransom has little choice but to follow close behind.

Everything is a blur. Everything except him: his bloodshot eyes, his alcohol laced breath, and the scent of his cologne. Regardless of whatever Ransom thinks, **gravity **is going to be the ultimate winner of this battle.

You take another desperate step to try to right yourself but there’s nothing there to support you. The pair of you have waltzed your way to the edge and are going over. Your stomach lurches at the thought and you suck in a breath, unable to so much as force out a yelp.

_Cra—thu—WHUMP_.

Everything stops, everything but the force of the impact and the roar of your heartbeat in your ears.

A dull echo reverberates down the bannister and through the quiet of Ransom’s house as the top half of your body rocks, the momentum the pair of you had built nearly taking you over the retaining wall you’ve collided with. By some miracle the pair of you have crashed into the bannister guarding the stairs rather than masterfully aiming for the unprotected space at the top of the staircase. Ransom’s hand clamps onto the railing, yours still trapped in his grasp, to keep from allowing the pair of you to complete the unexpected descent from the second story.

It takes you a prolonged moment to be able to breathe again, to be able to think again. Ransom has you pinned at the top edge of the stairs.

You sigh out a quick, quiet breath of relief, releasing the crushed material of his sweater as you enunciate the curse. “Fuck….” The small amount of movement it takes to speak makes you cringe, and that’s with the shock of the moment blocking almost everything. “Ow.”

Ransom takes a little longer to recover – likely because of that hangover he keeps nursing along by drinking a little more – his jaw twitching and flexing as he takes steadying breaths.

“You know you **could have** just **_asked_** for your phone back,” you opt for humor instead of focusing on the complaints your body thinks it might want to start trying to catalogue. That can wait, thanks. “Like a normal person.”

The left corner of his left eye twitches and he moves his body – just enough to allow a rush of cool air to touch you where the heat of his body had been moments prior. Oh. No. It _wasn’t_ relief that you’d caught flickering beneath his skin. That wasn’t dissipating fear but a flare of anger, and your words have stirred it to the surface again.

You feel Ransom’s grip on the rail loosening, his index finger twitching against your wrist. There’s no way you can manage a steadying grip if he releases how he has your hand pinned to the railing. That wrist was the one he’d popped to get you to drop his phone, never mind that your fingers are mostly numb for the strength of his hold. “Fuck! Ransom!” You find a new patch of material to crush in your right hand as you wobble precariously. Yes, you’d much rather push him away, snarl right back at him, but that’s impractical. You don’t _want_ to fall.

Ransom snorts out another little laugh, obeying the way you pull at his sweater and moving to close the gap between the pair of you again. With that ease of movement, the confidence in it, he’s got a bit more purchase than you’d initially estimated. While _you_ are leaning, all but dependent on the support provided by his body and his unforgiving grip on the rail – and your left hand – _he _seems almost _comfortable_ here at the top of the stairs. You twist to try to peek around the barricade of his arms, realizing it’s not just the bannister digging into your back but that damned bottle of alcohol that he still hasn’t let go of. Your suspicions are correct. Ransom is rooted, one foot on the landing, one foot securely placed on the second step down the stairs.

This time you don’t fight the urge to snarl back at him, even as the surge of adrenaline makes your movements start and stutter. As solid as Ransom feels against you there’s a distance in his manner, a coldness to his actions that makes your shaking worse. You need a way to vent without poking the bear further. 

A small smile creeps onto his lips, and he adjusts the way his left arm supports you, taking some of the strain off the way he has your left hand pinned. “Regret not leaving with the team, _now_, don’t you.”

Standing like this isn’t comfortable. One ankle has started a low-level protest that will surely worsen as the day progresses. The rest of your body? Your back would like to point of the hard bite of the liquor bottle just to the side of your spine, your hip bone the jolting impact of the railing, and your left hand? You wince at the ache of your fingers, still trapped between Ransom’s hand and the railing, knowing that pins and needles – and bruises – await.

“Maybe.” You swallow and force yourself to stop looking at that haze of a smile that keeps appearing and disappearing from view. You squint, instead, up into those bloodshot baby blues. “_Definitely _regret the additional bruises I’ll have to hide. But then I knew today was going to suck before I even bothered getting out of bed.”

Ransom blinks, his eyelashes fluttering as his smile evaporates, his attention flickering to the way he’s got your hand pinned to the rail. You watch him swallow, feeling the way he adjusts his grip and slides his hand up your arm. “Huh,” he answers, those blue eyes drift back to your face only to drop away again when his fingers find their way to your collar, tugging it taut to expose a portion of one of the slow-to-fade marks he’d left on your skin with his teeth. “Thought those would have gone in, by now.”

There’s that stirring again, that yearning that had kept you tossing and turning the night before. Maybe if you’d left with the team, squeezed into the van somehow. You swallow, giving a small slow shake of your head both in response to Ransom’s statement and your own internal line of thinking.

Who are you kidding? He would have sent some asinine response to your attempt at communicating the auction plans through email, forcing you to respond and set up another back and forth that would have – inevitably – ended with him demanding your presence. You’d denied such demands once, and spent the rest of the evening sleepless, haunted by the thoughts of your body tangled with his.

“Sometimes your bite is worse than your bark.”

Ransom’s mouth moves in a quick silent spasm as his eyes rake up from the edge of the bruise he’d exposed, his pointer and middle finger tugging to strain the collar of your dress almost beyond its limit. The backs of his fingers slowly trace over the fading purplish crescent, a low laugh accompanying the smirk that makes his eyes sparkle, “Only sometimes?”

It was a question delivered as a statement and – _fuck – y_ou’re not returning to the gallery any time soon. The look on his face promises a temporary distraction, an outlet for the frustration of a poor night’s sleep and the summons from – and subsequent argument with – your family. You can still hope that he’ll find another fuckbuddy when he’s away on his ski adventure with his family. Another hour in Ransom’s arms will help you concentrate the rest of the day, won’t it? Keep your mind from cycling back to those same visions that hunted you through the night?

A light tug on the front of his sweater is all it takes to get him to bend and press his lips to you skin. You half expect the sharp nip of his teeth to follow as you rock back, following the movement of his body, but the only pain you feel is from the jutting edge of the whiskey bottle still trapped between you and the rail. You loose a noise of discomfort, though it hardly gets him to break the contact between his mouth and your neck. “Bottle.” You protest a little louder, and this time feel the ghosting graze of his teeth over your collar bone. “If you ruin this dress with whiskey…”

He presses his mouth down, sucking a quick kiss to the spot he’d barely bitten, before straightening just enough to reply as he yanks the bottle out of its wedged position. “If it’s such a problem –” Blindly, he sets the bottle on the ledge behind you, clearly not caring if it crashes to the floor below. It would be just another mess for someone else to deal with at another time.

His freshly freed up left hand finds its way to the clasp of your dress just below your shoulder blades. _Yes_, **_yes_**. _Out of the dress_. It’ll be wrinkled in places, for sure, but maybe you can hide that with your jacket. It would be the scent of alcohol that would be harder problem to solve – at least without taking more time away from the gallery to go home and change.

Surprisingly, Ransom doesn’t take advantage of the fact that he doesn’t have to pull so hard on your collar to expose more skin, instead he seems more intent on moving away from this precarious perch at the top of the stairs. He doesn’t give you any room to reach to unzip your dress further, any time to try to wiggle out of it, or get more than a step in the direction of the bedroom door. He cuts his foot across your path again, and you’re reminded with a quick sudden pang that something doesn’t quite feel right with your ankle.

_Heels. Off. _It takes all of a second to kick off your shoes and then that small advantage he has been abusing is gone. You’re better able to counter whatever maneuvers he’s attempting, combatting his clear intention of driving the pair of you to the floor. The floor is not an option you care to explore at the moment. _He_ may not give two shakes about the condition of _his _clothes, but _you_ care about _yours_. Your **job **cares. Presentation plays a major roll in how successful you are at what you do!

Ransom catches you more firmly around the waist, tugging at the fabric of your dress. It’s unclear if his goal is to get the dress up with the intent of pulling it over your head, or shove it down to let you step out of it – but either way the zipper needs to be involved. Actually, the answer seems closer to: neither. He’s just using the extra fabric hanging from your body to keep your body close to his.

You collide with the doorway, again feeling the jolting impact when Ransom crashes into you – another set of bruises sure to result. The buzz of lust quickly overtakes any lingering concerns you have when his deliciously talented mouth goes back to work traversing your exposed skin.

Concerns? What concerns? You can hardly tell the difference between the shudders of anticipation as his body works its magic and the shiver that results when his hand finds the way beneath your dress. You want him. You want all of him. You want him thrusting into you, pounding away the aggression you’ve faced since walking in the door.

His knees buck out, pushing yours further apart, the one hand working double time between the pair of you, rushing to shove layers aside, the other keeping the pair of you braced against the wall. He leans back to watch your face as he drags his fingers over the damp fabric between your legs. Something pings within you as he juts out his chin – the smirk, the squint of satisfaction he’s giving you as he looks down his nose – but then he hooks the edge of your panties with his fingertips and pulls them aside, sheathing himself inside you with one quick motion of his hips. After that you really don’t care about anything other than the building heat between the pair of you and finding the position and rhythm that will get you to closer to that inevitable sparkling release.

You’re nearly gone, so close to happily floating, when he growls something unintelligible your ears refuse to decipher and slows his pace to an almost standstill. Deep as he is, he doesn’t seem satisfied, torqueing his hips into a position that is almost uncomfortable for how full it makes you feel. Ransom shakes his head as he releases your leg from where he’d held it when you’d partially wrapped it around his body, unseating himself and taking a half step away from you. The sudden absence of him makes you shudder, words of protest not quite forming on your lips as you try to catch up to this moment in time.

The flush over his features does nothing to diminish the streaks of red spiderwebbing his eyes. He blinks at you, clicking his teeth together while seeming to try to set his jaw and calm his breathing. Whatever had stalled him out doesn’t last long. On the next inhale he closes the distance between the pair of you again, the heat from his body returning in a sudden rush that brings a contented moan rippling out of you. His arms wrap around you and then he shifts, walking backwards as he pulls you away from the wall, turning to enter his bedroom and progress towards the bed.

“Clothes. Off.”

You’ve never been happier to comply with one of his demands.

You miss the chance to enjoy the aesthetically pleasing view of watching Ransom peel out of his sweater, only actually making it out of the dress and carefully draping it on his dresser, before his hands convince you that that’s enough in the effort of removing layers. He’s gotten your underwear just where he wants them already anyway, and it doesn’t take much to deal with the issue of your bra.

His mouth sets to work again finding the spots where he’d left souvenirs that have yet to fully fade. He plants kisses, sucking at each of the bruises as he settles you onto the mattress just the way he wants, refusing to fully reconnect your bodies. Your frustration mounts as his mouth wanders, the traditional nip of his teeth absent from his attentions.

“Ransom…”

His head jerks up from the area just above your navel at your impatient tone, a wicked smile belatedly flashing as he looks over his handiwork, watching you arc your back and open your legs to him a little more. The area around his mouth is rosy, more noticeable against the bright white of his teeth, his full lips a deeper hue from his devotions, “I love making you beg.”

“Then make me cum until I beg you to stop.”

“Is that what kept you up last night?”

He knows the answer, but that’s likely the very reason why he asked.

“Yes.”

You watch him dip his hand between his legs and pump twice before he seems willing to give you what you want and settles his body into yours again. His movements are more fluid, more controlled as he shifts, plowing deep within you in a way no man has matched. He’ll never know it, because you’d rather die than tell him, but he’s ruined sex with everyone else. No one else seems to know – or care to learn – just how far to push you, just how much you can take. You’d managed it once with a vibrator and nearly broke a picture frame from the experience. Never again. Never again.

“What?”

Ransom’s blue eyes blink down at you and he pauses rolling his hips, swallowing a huffed breath as his body seems to want to continue absent of commands from his brain. Maybe that’s just the reaction to your body clenching around him, the precursor to the toe curling delights that are soon to come. “I didn’t.” You shake your head, laughing and dropping your mouth open as he moves his body in response to the feeling of your words, completing the hitching of his hips. “I want. So close, Ransom. We’re so close. I’m.”

“So close. I know.” He drops his head down to quiet you after finishing your sentence, locking his lips on yours. He rumbles out half a laugh as he comes up for air, settling more securely onto his forearms and dropping his head to speak breathless words into the pillow beside your ear, “Closer than you know. Gonna cum hard for me, baby?”

“I—”

You don’t get to answer him, this time. You see stars, and a momentary blanketed darkness as the coil within you snaps, but he’s not done yet. He’s breathing is a little uneven, nowhere near as wild as yours, his body barely rocking except for what motion is required to breathe. You think, for a second, that he’s simply waiting for you to relax enough that he can pull out – but then he shifts his body a little more, lifting up off one forearm to initiate a different angle. Your lower half shudders again, releasing another rolling wave of pleasure that makes you want to lock your legs together, but there’s a body in the way.

Ransom laughs, dropping his head down to mutter, his breath tickling your skin, “Till you beg me to stop.” His hips roll, stutter, and then roll again as he reaches down to hook his hand around the back of your knee and open your legs wide once more, “Just like you asked.”

-

Much later than you anticipated staying in bed with him, Ransom traces the pad of his fingertip up the curve of your breast to circle your areola, the action leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. “Your way doesn’t work, you know.”

“What?”

The bed shifts, rumpled sheets not really covering either of you tugging a little tighter with the movement of certain body parts, “Yesterday,” he explains, his attention devoted to the freckles he claims form a particular shape when viewed from a certain angle and the way his fingers trace over your skin, “My parents? Telling them about the writing.”

You lick your lips, doing your best to ignore the urge to pull away from the borderline ticklish attentions of his hands. It’s important, what he’s saying. How vulnerable he’s being, even if it’s being expressed as an accusation. “That _was_ a surprise…. How – how did they take it?”

His eyebrows quirk up and those blue eyes flick up to your face, “Once things settled, you mean.” He flattens his hand over your ribcage before he heaves out a sigh and rolls to lay flat on his back, the heat of his palm gone in an instant. “It doesn’t matter.” He wiggles his shoulders, frowning up at the ceiling, “They made up their minds a long time ago. The whole damn family.”

“But what they think matters,” you know exactly how he feels. “Even if you try to act like it doesn’t.”

Ransom exhales, tucking his chin down to swing his attention around to you, “Yea.” His body belatedly rolls, following the direction of his focus. “Fucking frustrating as hell.”

“I’m sorry.” You exhale, letting your focus drift from his borderline-wild hair to the expression on his face. The crook of his nose. The spot of red you’re just now noticing on his cheek where he nicked himself shaving. It would be far too easy to get carried away and spend the rest of the day here in bed with him, testing to see just how far you can push each other, just how many times you can bring one another to the brink and then crash over.

Blinking yourself free of your examination of the man laying there next to you, you move to sit up. You should get up. You should clean up and get dressed and…

“There’s a freedom in it, I guess.” He sighs, the bed shifting as he reaches above his head and stretches, “Knowing that nothing I’ve ever done, nothing I ever do, can make them change their minds.”

You fall closer to the earlier opinion he shared – that it’s frustrating as hell. You pluck at the dark grey sheets trying to wrap their way around your legs as though sentient. You’re trying to remember the last guy that showed you his raw edges as Ransom has, spilled so many of his secrets, but you can’t quite pull a face or name from your memory.

_Oh _– oh _god_. You shift carefully in the bed as though readying to scoot to the edge and stand, careful to face the opposite wall before allowing the thought to fully form.

Do you love Ransom?


	15. You'll miss me when you're gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ alternatively titled: whisper ]

**T**he only thing worse than discovering you possibly have allowed feelings to develop for the asshole would be letting him come to the same conclusion. The immediate remedy is pouring yourself into work, and quietly thanking the stars that Linda had been so insistent on the family gathering that forced her son out of the state. Why the pre-party planning for Harlan’s 84th needed to take place at a ski chalet with the entire family in attendance is a mystery you really don’t care to untangle. It’s worked out in your favor – forcing distance between you and her son – which makes you tempted to send Linda flowers.

But being free of him for going on a week now isn’t helping as much as it should. It certainly isn’t helping you sort out exactly what you’re feeling. It isn’t love. It _can’t_ be love. Part of the bargain struck between the pair of you was that _love_ would **never** enter the equation. Prepping for the showcase should occupy more of your focus, effectively silencing the echoes of Ransom swirling in your head. Should. Instead…

The successful auctioning of his art can’t be blamed, no matter how much you wanted to lie to yourself and say that loose connection was the cause. It wasn’t so simple as the need for physical satisfaction, either. It would be easier to contend with surges of desire, squirming in your seat to try to quell the heat igniting your core at the thought of his touch and his quiet commands. Instead you find yourself dwelling on the unexpected truths that you’ve heard spring from his devilish lips.

_Nothing I’ve ever done. Nothing I ever do can make them change their minds about me._

It wasn’t the first time you’d heard him state that opinion, but he’d never let the thought be laced with such defeat before. Usually it was a hard accusation, something he delightfully reveled in. He was free to act out without much, if any, reprisal. He felt could do whatever he pleased because they’d painted into a box and refused to let him leave it.

Given their willingness to take it all in stride, simply refer to him as ‘_the black sheep’_ was likely the very reason why he never seemed tempted to try to break free of their hold. He could have chosen so many other ways to live rather than settle in, sucking up every bit of venom they provided and spewing it in whatever direction caught his attention.

Dealing with family is always complicated, no matter who you are. You’d walked your own path, lashing out in ways you thought would hurt the family – and sometimes did – but mostly only dealt lasting damage to a single person: yourself. It was a hard lesson to learn, but you’d figured it out. Mostly. Moving away from the family, from Baltimore, had helped even more than the few years of therapy mandated for the last two years of high-school, and set you up to successfully graduating with your art degree.

Glancing aside at the bag in the seat next to you, and the folio jammed between the bag and the seat, you exhale a sigh. Ransom was getting to deal with his extended relations in a chateau somewhere. You? You get to try to navigate your old stomping grounds while juggling work and attempting to avoid your family. At roughly half the size of Boston, Baltimore just isn’t big enough for you to feel confident that you’ll be successful. Waiting until the morning of the event to drive up only provided so much of a buffer. Request from your parents be damned, ensuring that you don’t step foot in your childhood home really will do nothing to keep the ghosts of past choices from finding you. There are only so many streets to go down, only so many hotels, only so many bars.

Maybe there’s something in the water, something in the air, something that gains in strength when allowed to seep into your skin.

At least you know with a fair amount of confidence that Ransom won’t crash the showcase. He’d done it at local events back in Boston, randomly appeared and cockblocked you when you did your best to end up with one of the visiting artists.

_ All those artists to try to seduce. You’re usually giddy for it._

“Get out of my head, Ransom.” You adjust your grip on the steering wheel, glaring out at the sparse traffic on the road before you. How had you managed keeping him at arm’s length before? Those early days when he was just another overly confident boy strutting across the quad with a trail of doe eyed girls vying for his attention? You’d been focused on not letting yourself down, on the coursework, on graduating and pursuing a career in something that sparked your interest.

_Why_ is it so difficult to rebuff him, now?

The **_F_** word – feelings – and the **_L _** word shimmer in your mind. You give your head a sharp shake to try to dislodge their hold. No. No that wasn’t it. Couldn’t be it.

_ \- ping! - _

Your phone alerts you to another message, pulling a soft sigh out of you. That he knows your itinerary is your own doing. That he’s talking to you again is your own doing as well. You felt the need to update him about the successful sale of his art, and the fact that your team was 99% confident his mother didn’t obtain any of the art by proxies.

It’s a little surprising that he’s awake, as early as it is.

{_Still say you should reroute.  
Blow off the event. The family.  
Come entertain me instead._}

He wants entertainment? Of course he’s found a way to be bored while stuck in somewhere gorgeous with his extended family. Actually – you might find the security footage _very_ entertaining. Being there with the lot of them was hardly appealing, knowing as you do how quickly everything devolves into arguments. From the sounds of it Richard was the only one escaping to the slopes, but you’ve been doing your best not to engage to dig details out of Ransom. As itchy as your current destination makes you to make bad decisions, the sensible thing to do is block out everything else that could contribute to this trip spiraling out of control.

_ \- ping! - _

{_You should’ve flown._}

You’d considered that, take a red-eye up there at the last possible moment to minimize the chances of free time for your family to appropriate, and then fly back as soon as you’d secured the interest of at least a few of the artists on your gallery’s Want list. Ultimately you nixed the idea, opting to drive to allow yourself the freedom to come and go – or flee – as you pleased.

{_Could’ve talked you through an orgasm at 33 thousand ft. Audio slash video proof required ofc _}

“Of course,” you mutter to yourself over the hum of the road. It’s tempting to tell him to go throw a snowball at someone’s head and leave you to your day, maybe even go through the motions of blocking his number, but that wouldn’t solve anything. He knows you can’t turn your phone off and would simply start texting you from another number.

Maybe if you can distract him, remind him that there are ways to entertain himself that don’t involve you…

“How many of the maids have you worked your way through?”

{_Seven_.}

“Only seven in three days?” You laugh as you compose your response via speech-to-text, “You’re slipping.”

{_Of ten. The other three are men._}

“Afraid to experiment or are you not that bored yet?”

His next text arrives with a photo message. {_This one’s got a pretty mouth, don’t you think? _}

It’s probably a photo of one of the maids. A quick response might settle him so you can refocus on driving the last few miles and what is ahead of you: check in, changing, prep-work, and then the event itself. “Go enjoy breakfast and ‘pretty mouth’, then.”

Curiosity might spur you to open the message later and see this ‘pretty mouth’ he’s trying to use to make you jealous. Maybe you’ll turn your read receipts off first.

“Oh! And wish Harlan a happy 84th for me.”

You swipe to ignore a text from your sister without reading it – likely a request for your schedule and estimation of when you’ll be by the house, _never… if you can help it_ – and then have to swipe again to ignore an incoming call from Ransom. You refuse to let him get the last word or twist you into more of a mess than you already are.

It’s not the end of it. You know him well enough to know that he won’t simply take your advice and leave you alone. The next text doesn’t come through until you’ve thrown your bags onto the bed and started the process of changing for the artist showcase. It’s not just a text that arrives, though. There’s a video attachment along with the message: {_Pretty mouth could use a few pointers_.}

It’s a bad idea to view the message. It’s bad enough you’ve allowed him so deep under your skin. He never used to be able to get to you like this. How had this happened? How had the game, the amusement, the sport, become something else?

Your phone chimes again as you smooth out the lines of your dress, examining the overall presentation in the mirror. Another text from Hannah – one you don’t bother to read – that is long enough that the message cuts before the full length can be displayed. But picking up your phone has consequences. You cut your eyes to your reflection before allowing your fingers to do what your brain demands and open the file Ransom had sent.

//

_The video angle frames Ransom’s face first, and a look you know all too well. Annoyed. His annoyance is focused on the lens, and you feel it bore into you, even several screens and thousand miles between the pair of you. _

_“You should have picked up.” _

_He tips his head up at the camera, lifting an eyebrow, letting that statement linger and then his gaze swings away – down, beyond the device held in his hand. Moments after his focus locks the view of the camera swings around, showing how he’s slouched in the chair, the rumpled state of his clothes, and finally stopping on the thing that had drawn his eye. _

_This must be pretty mouth. _

_‘Say hello.’ _

_Pretty mouth gives the camera her best pouty face and twiddles her fingers as she settles more securely between his knees at the base of the chair. _

//

You grit your teeth, fighting against the shiver that runs through you at the sound of his low command. You swipe out of the video, backtrack out of the messages, and toss your phone away. It lands on the downy covered bedspread with a – _plop! _

“Asshole.” You hiss out the word, turning to look out the hotel window at the cityscape. It wasn’t his fault that you’d be splitting your focus during the showcase now. Not entirely. It’s yours for opening the video, for allowing that come-hither smile to entice you all those years ago, for entering the stupid arrangement with him…

Responding to him now is out of the question. His hands, among other parts of his body, are likely very busy at the moment anyway. Couple that with the fact that you’re feeling a surge of jealousy…

No.

There’s no way in hell you’ll be feeding that ego of his, particularly not with the knowledge that his antics have netted the exact thing he was aiming for. Maybe you’ll reference his attempts later, much much later. Once the showcase is concluded and you’ve garnered the interest of a few of the artists the gallery was vying after, maybe _then – _

The showcase doesn’t extend that far into the evening. There will be plenty of time to lounge in the hotel bed. Maybe even time enough to give Ransom a call, give him a dose of his own medicine.

_If_ there isn’t an artist that catches your eye. Without Ransom’s interference there’s no reason you won’t wind up bringing someone home to join you in the master suite. Even if you bring someone back to the hotel with you it doesn’t necessarily mean you have to nix the idea of sending Ransom a video.

Your ankle protests the heels you’d selected, a lingering reminder of the last morning you’d spent in Ransom’s company. You’ll have to be sure to get a shot of your heels in the video you send him this evening. He won’t have forgotten that they’re the shoes you purchased after getting the commission – after you’d cleaned out his account to make the Basquiat purchases.

Bolstered, you cast one last smirk at yourself in the mirror, pleased with the vision smiling back and turn for the door to the room. Time to lose yourself in the art world for a little while – the art, the showcase, and the up-and-coming artists that will be filtering in for the event starting in a few hours. You just might snare a few artists before the event starts, either signing contracts for them to display their work at the gallery or capturing their interest in other ways. It’ll either tie up or free up your evening: a win no matter how you looked at it.

Additional bonus – you just might be able to quiet the moans echoing in your head, filter out Ransom’s low commands, and all those urges the city seems to be encouraging you to pursue. Art. It worked during school, being consumed by your studies. It had worked in Boston, too, for a time. Why shouldn’t it work here? Allow yourself the joy of wandering, enjoying the works displayed on the temporary walls thrown up, appreciating the talent of those creators.

The answer whispers through you as you cross the street towards the building where the exhibition will take place: _because it’s Baltimore._


	16. Don't think you can ghost me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Alternately titled: distance ]

Baltimore. You need more than your fingers and toes to count the reasons why you want to be anywhere else. But it’s needed, for work. Maybe, just maybe, if you’re able to keep busy enough you can keep the trip from getting worse. As you wander perusing the art you let your mind drift, entertaining the carefully worded response you might have to send to get Hannah to stop calling. Similar to the issue you’re currently facing with Ransom, muting or blocking your sister for the duration of your time in the city won’t solve the problem.

‘_Sorry, Hannah. (But not really) Tell everyone I’m sorry. (**Really** not) Can’t make it by the house. (By careful design) Maybe next time! (Or never again, if I can help it)_’

Ransom has, at least for the moment, stopped texting. Thinking about the reasons _why_ he’s fallen silent send you back down the spiral you’re trying to avoid.

The art. The art will save you, just as it had when you were pursuing your degree. It gives you somewhere else to pour your focus – allowing you to tamp down on the rising itch making itself known.

“_Fucking **Baltimore**.”_

There are forces at play working against you, that’s what this is. You started slipping when you gave in to primal urges, allowing Ransom into your bed on a more regular basis, and then the gallery just _happens_ to send you back home for an event?

You note a few alcoves you might be able to drag someone into – or allow yourself to be dragged into if the evening allows – as you make your way through the venue. It’s quiet still, early enough that you’re one of only a few milling around looking at the talent on display. Your ankle sounds a small protest, still sore from Ransom’s handiwork at his house. By the end of the evening you’ll need to ice it … _if _you’re not otherwise occupied.

Damn Ransom.

That you can’t keep your mind from turning back to thoughts of him is an annoyance. Couple that with the continued alerts from your phone… One or two might be care of the gallery, checking in and updating with last minute requests for artists they’d like you to dig into a little. The rest of the periodic buzzing from your clutch are care of your sister who _won’t take the damn hint _from your continued silence.

You slip your hand into your bag, slipping your fingers through the contents to find the offending device. Your displeasure must be etched onto your features. The others wandering around are giving you a wide berth – or maybe they’re blissfully lost in their own little world, enjoying the calm before the bustle of the showcase. Oh how you wish you could share a sliver of their world. But for you – thoughts of bliss lead you right back down the spiral you wish you could escape from.

“Not a fan?”

You squeeze the buttons on the sides of your phone and let it fall free of your grasp to settle into its position in your bag, turning your attention to the man that has appeared at your side. He’s dressed in similar fashion to you, mostly in black with touches of color accenting the outfit. His attention shifts between you and the art, his face contorting into a critical expression briefly before returning to something more pleasant.

This – this is a very welcome distraction – and there’s art to consider, too.

Slipping a smile in place you turn to the paintings on display. The largest piece is the one that seems to hold his focus. But he’d asked if you were a fan. It would be unfair to consider the artist without looking at the two smaller paintings paired off to the side. All three are similar in tone, though the style is somewhat varied. You glance quickly at the signature in the corner of all three works, a single letter painted with a flourish – V. This is a collection by one of the artists the gallery was interested in. If memory serves, care of your cram sessions over the past few days leading up to the event, V is the rising star that had graduated from your alma mater.

Just like Ransom.

You fight to keep from letting your smile slip as _he_ pops back into your head again.

_ Say hello._

At this rate, the evening will be a long one…. “Sorry. Lost in thought. I’m intrigued. But what about you?” You quarter turn away from the art, letting yourself focus again on the man at your side. Yes. He could be a very fun distraction. “What are your thoughts?”

“I think…” His caramel eyes lock onto the painting, shifting over the canvas as he replies. He’s not brushing off your question, as you might expect from this stranger, preparing to steer you away from the display and launch into the typical pretentious peacocking male tirade about the art world in general and his own tastes specifically. No, he’s examining the art and mulling over his words before giving you an answer.

Interesting.

Not just a pretty face.

“I think the intention was to stir feelings of loss and survival. Something to remind the viewer what it is to let someone, or something, fade. To know we can survive the release and fight the compulsion we have to cling to things. Both good and bad.”

You flip your attention between the art and this puzzle of a man, your mood lifting, your smile sticking more easily to your features. Hopefully he’ll stick around as the evening progresses. “Hmm. All that from the somber tones and thick brushstrokes. I wonder if that’s what the artist was intending.”

“Yes.” He tucks his hands into his pockets as he turns his attention away from the display.

His simple answer takes you a little aback. A soft laugh escapes you, and if it bothers him that you’re finding humor in his response he doesn’t show it. Actually, he seems to be enjoying himself. “You’re fairly confident in that, aren’t you?”

“Not that it matters, but yes. Once the work is on view for the public eye all that matters is what is felt by those that see it, not what the artist intended.” His grin turns a little bashful as he flicks his attention aside at the trio of canvases again. He inclines his head a fraction as he looks to you again, “But they’re mine. I painted them.”

_Oh_.

“Quincy.” He holds out his hand in introduction as he offers his name.

Why hadn’t the gallery supplied photographs of the artists along with their profiles? But… Quincy? You glance aside at the signature in the corner of his paintings, pausing after you introduce yourself in return. You don’t get the chance to ask any of the questions springing to mind. A photographer dips into the bubble established around the pair of you, a sudden rush of sound rocking you back into place in the venue.

“Quincy? Quincy. Good, I’ve caught you. We’re trying to capture each of our talent at the entrance. On the stairs before it becomes –” The photographer flits their hand in the air to wave aside the futility of the endeavor once the night gets underway.

You’re tempted, for all of a moment, to dig your badge out of your bag and wave it in the photographer’s face. Of all the times to interrupt – just as you were building up a nice rapport with one of the artists your gallery wanted signed – never-you-mind the other urges swirling within every time he settles those smoked-whiskey colored eyes on you.

Quincy saves you from yourself, issuing the photographer a tight nod before exhaling and rearranging his features to offer you a quiet apology. “Obligations to fulfill.” He tips his eyebrows up and together, flicking his attention aside at the art that he’d caught you glowering at before turning his focus back to you again, “But I’d still love to hear your thoughts if you’ll find me, later.”

Oh. He can count on it.

Quincy waits for your nod before allowing himself to be led away towards the venue’s main entrance. Something about him is familiar, more than recognition from the study sessions before the event. It’s not just the easy way he carries himself, the swagger to his shoulders, torso, and hips as the distance between the pair of you increases. You turn your attention back to the title card that carried a little bio, not that it offered any more detail than the information compiled by the gallery and held in the folio jammed underneath your bag back in your hotel room.

Is it his face? Not the squareness of his jaw or shape of his nose but a face you’ve seen before, around campus all those years ago? The dates of attendance didn’t quite track for that to be the case insofar as you remember. It might just be that he’s exuding the very thing you want to drape yourself in at the moment, answering the urges you’re fighting to suppress.

Just focus on the art. Focus on the art and the artists you need to try to sign on behalf of the gallery. It’s why you’re here, after all.

_ All those artists to seduce. You’re usually giddy for it._

Gritting your teeth, you glare out at the room. Ransom isn’t even _here_ and he’s needling you, pestering you, egging you on. If he _were_ here he’d likely wait until you were two seconds from signing someone, or two seconds from the promise of a satisfying romp and wander up to cockblock the moment. He’d stake his claim with posturing and thinly veiled statements – and as for his follow through…

Up until recently it was hardly something you could count on. Being satisfied by the outcome, by _him._

Why the fuck can’t you get Ransom out of your head?

The base of your clutch vibrates, tugging a groan out of you. Watch. You’ve just summoned the beast. Locking your jaw, you dig your phone out to read the display before it goes dark again. That makes 10 missed calls from _Hannah_. Someone needs to remind your little sister the significance and meaning of the word **_no_** followed by silence.

No, you’re not available. No, you’re not coming to dinner. Or drinks. No, you’re not going to listen to whatever new demands the family wants to make in lieu of a relationship they’d failed to cultivate. They can levy whatever punishment they deem acceptable in response. When you’re starting to feel the pull back towards old habits the _last_ thing you need to do is tempt fate and put yourself squarely in their domain.

With the interruption with Quincy fresh in your mind you set out to ensure that won’t happen again with any of the other artists you interact with. The first goal you have after assessing their work is making sure that they sign the agreement to extend rights to the gallery to sell their art. After that you allow yourself to mingle and enjoy their company, reveling in their passion, the purity of expression as to how they see the world. This was what you’d devoted yourself to in school – it wasn’t to stand in an illuminated space try to convince people they needed something hanging in their home that they may or may not appreciate.

_You’re art. Selling useless things to…_

“There you are.”

You turn, finding yourself being offered a champagne glass and a warm smile, Ransom’s words abruptly cutting off in your head. Tucking your clutch beneath your arm, your list of acquired artists more than half complete, you gratefully accept the drink. “Oh. Thank you.”

Quincy raises his glass in your direction, offering you a silent toast before taking a sip. “The evening must be going well. A lesser man might think you’re avoiding him.”

“But not you.”

He shakes his head, letting his mouth fall slightly open as he chuckles. It’s distracting – the way he moves, the color of his lips, the color of his eyes – the confidence oozing out of him as he takes a step closer, “I’m not afraid of a successful woman. Besides, I secured a promise before anyone else even caught your eye.”

“Hmm.” You swirl the champagne a little in its flute, “So are drinks your way of luring me back to hear my thoughts? Or to keep me from finishing my circuit of the room?”

“A little of both if I’m being honest.”

Honesty. From a man you hardly know. It’s strange, how vibrant and open he is compared to the art he had on display. What had he talked about when the pair of you were considering his paintings? Loss and memory, moving on. Knowing when to let things go. Maybe that was part of it, how he’s able to move around so seemingly unencumbered by the weight of things in the past. It feels like you’re being drawn towards him like metal to a magnet.

“Oh, you’re dangerous. But in the spirit of honesty – ” You shift your drink into your other hand to be able to dip your fingers into your clutch still tucked under your arm, retrieving your badge that bares the gallery’s information. A small knot forms in your chest as you display the badge between the pair of you, holding it scissored between two fingers. “You’re actually on my ‘get’ list, _my gallery’s_ ‘get’ list.”

Quincy’s expression barely falters as he reads the lines of less-than-subtle text from your badge. With the smallest of frowns, he flits his attention away from the piece of plastic held in your hand, a rolling shrug accompanying the way he lifts an eyebrow at you, “Maybe I’m a little more offended than I first thought by how long it’s taking you to get back to me.”

You hadn’t really intended on showing your hand, on revealing yourself quite yet in that capacity. It was far more fun to hold all the cards and flirt and tease and tempt, seeing how far you could get. Now you’ve got to wonder how long he’s known that you weren’t just someone to flirt with to pass the evening by. If he’s been in it for the financial security that comes with signing the contract… is he just like every other guy you’ve met?

He can’t know about your connections to the city. You haven’t even told him your last name. Still, the underlying fear is there. Maybe that’s why you found it so easy to be with Ransom. He had his own trust fund to deal with. There was no need to worry about him trying to get his hands on the paltry – in comparison – sum that made up yours.

You can feel Quincy watching as you tuck the badge back into your clutch, once again hiding it from view. His expression appears troubled when you look up again, a frown you find it easy to return. “It just got weird, didn’t it.”

“Only if you never planned on checking me off your list.”

There’s that glimmer of confidence again fanning the urges the city keeps whispering in your ear. Fuck the rest of the night. Fuck the rest of the list. Fuck Ransom. Fuck the gallery. All you can think about is getting Quincy’s signature, securing his future becoming tangled with yours, and then finding something much more satisfying to do with him than standing around talking.

It takes you a second to reign yourself back in. Your job at the gallery may very well be the reason you’re back in Baltimore at the moment but it’s also the reason you’re able to maintain the distance – between the city and yourself, and yourself and your family – that keeps you functioning. If it weren’t for your job you’d be at your family’s mercy more than you already are. Taking stock of where you are in the room you wave in the direction you estimate Quincy’s art to be. “I don’t know if I should admire or pity you.”

“Oh?”

Who is following whom, or are the pair of you just making your way leisurely through the crowd. Does it matter? You keep a careful eye out, watching the delight on his face as the pair of you filter through the others in evening attire and attention he pays to you in return. “For being so trusting. Don’t you want to talk terms, first?”

He fires a question right back, pausing to let a server pass. “Would you make me an offer that wasn’t worth my while?”

You might need to readjust your estimations for the evening. The look he’s giving you makes you want to unbutton his pants and get on your knees right there in the middle of room, forget making it back to the hotel after the event is over. If he were Ransom… If he were Ransom he’d already have you in an alcove somewhere, no question. After whatever sinful activities immediately sprang to mind he’d then be pushing his way through anyone daring to not move quickly enough out of his way, determined to keep you on your back and moaning well into the morning.

“Ah,” you clear your throat, humming for a second to get your mouth working in the way that you want. “But it isn’t _my _offer, now, is it. I’m just the go-between. All I’m saying is to watch out for strings.”

Quincy subtly motions, turning the pair of you ever so slightly on your path through the crowd and then his artwork appears before you – with a few people standing around looking thoughtful. You note a badge or two clipped to lapels and necklines, but Quincy doesn’t step away to engage with them. He gives you a quick wink in response to your curious expression, “I assume you need to consult that little bag of yours so I can start reading.”

“You don’t want to—”

He shakes his head, “I’m good right where I am. I’m chasing a promise.”

As you pull out the single page document for him to sign, a generic assurance that in return for financial compensation the artist will give rights to the gallery for the pieces exhibited – leaving the option open for a future contract upon review of their work, you find yourself wondering: who exactly is chasing whom?

Quincy pulls a pen out of his pocket, twiddling it around in his fingers as he waits for you to unfold the document. His gaze lingers on yours as you hand the page over, “You know you could review my options with me tomorrow, over lunch.”

Laughing, you half roll your eyes at him and shake your head, “I won’t be here tomorrow for lunch. Read it. Sign it.”

He squints down at the page, the quick flick of his eyes telling you he’s scanning the words on the page. Likely he’s looking for any jargon that might set off warning bells. Without looking up he quirks his eyebrow and murmurs, “Make an exception?”

A multitasker. He paints, he listens – and cleans up so very well. You find yourself wondering what he looks like in his element with specks of paint littering his skin, and what it might take to be privy to such a view. “Sign the document, and I might.”

The corner of his mouth stretches, a half smirk appearing along with the crescent of barely perceptible dimple as he taps the back of the pen to the paper. He’s either delaying for effect or just taking his time with the last few paragraphs. “…what if I’m signing over my firstborn?”

"I told you to watch out for strings."

The laughter in his eyes when he looks up from his speed-perusal of the terms is deadly. “Fair enough.” He drops his gaze again only long enough to scrawl his signature on the appropriate line, adding the date after a moment’s pause. As he hands the document back to you, he grins, “There we go. My children are officially _your_ problem, now.”

Inclining your head in a half-nod you turn your attention to his display – _three of them are, anyway_… Not that you’re harboring any doubts that you can find buyers for his work. He’ll do very well at the gallery. It’s interesting that he considers his paintings his children, particularly given what he told you before. His intention as he shaped them was all well and good but once they were out in the world it was what _others_ thought and felt that mattered.

Best of all – now that the document is signed you can focus on convincing him that the rest of the evening needs to be spent in your company in another capacity. You fold the paper back up to replace it in your bag, wondering just what proposition will be needed to get him to say yes. Who needs subtly? Ten to one if you simply state your intentions he’ll follow you out of the venue like a puppy on a string.

“Yes.” If anything, Quincy looks even more mouthwatering now that he’s achieved his goal for the evening. The point of displaying his art, of attending the showcase, was getting his name cast out into wider circles, hopefully picked up by a gallery. You’ve given him just that. And hopefully more. “I…” You hardly care that a few other bystanders might hear what you’re about to say, but as you flick your attention out into the venue in the direction of your hotel your words die on your lips. You spot a familiar face: your sister. “Can’t believe it.”

“What?”

“No. Not your art. I… _fuck_.” There’s no use trying to turn your back. The moment you spotted her, she spotted you. You were so focused, gleefully joyful, that Ransom couldn’t randomly show up that you’d forgotten a key detail: _the fact that the showcase was being held in your home city, and your family knew you’d be attending._

“Oh. My. God!” Hannah makes a little show as she slows her steps, letting the skirt of her dress swirl a little. She stops just short of crashing into you. “Do you _know_ how to answer your phone?”

At least she hadn’t gone for a hug. You wouldn’t have put it past her to ‘accidentally’ spill your drink in an effort to be able to drag you away to the bathroom. She contrasts your appearance in almost every way at the moment, her light dress made of a material that seems to float while your black dress clings to your curves. “Hannah. What are you doing here? I’m _working_.”

“I figured, if my sister won’t make time to see me,” she pauses, taking stock of Quincy before zeroing in on the champagne flute in your hand. She snatches it and takes a sip before you have time to react, “_I’ll _find a way to see _her_.”

You gently pry the now almost empty glass away from her, internally cursing the day she was born. It’s not her fault that she’s like this. Mostly. You breathe out her name in warning, “Hannah…”

Apparently freeing up her hands was just what she wanted now that she’s gotten a sip of something bubbly. That it was something of _yours_ was an added bonus. She turns to Quincy and gives him her best playful pout, “She _never_ visits and the _one night_ she’s going to be in town she says she’s **too busy working**.”

“Which. I. Am.”

Quincy, to his credit, doesn’t focus long on the teenager doing her best to snag his attention. Instead he tips his eyebrows at you, “Not local, then?”

You can feel the potential fun for the evening being smothered by your sister’s presence. If you can do something with her – _quickly_ – maybe your plans to get him in bed can be salvaged. “It’s complicated. I don’t make it home as much as the family might like.”

“Like _ever_.”

You’ve got a careful hold of your smile but can feel your expression start to crack as Hannah steps to your side and tugs your arm, looping her arm with yours. Her intention is clear. She’s going to anchor herself to you until you give in. There’s no way that you’re going to allow her to commandeer the evening. There’s also no way to get her to leave without walking away from Quincy. 

“Family’s fun that way.” Quincy dips his attention away from you for a second, his focus sliding to your sister before locking his gaze on yours again. Who knows what he makes of the situation, but he seems to be picking up on your displeasure at Hannah’s appearance clearly enough. He motions towards the glass you’re trying to keep out of Hannah’s reach, “Never quite satisfied with what we do or how choose to live. I’ll take that if you want to…”

“Yes.” God, if you weren’t clamped to your sister’s side at the moment you might launch yourself into Quincy’s arms and kiss him. But – _oh_. Family. You’re stuck swiveling between the two points, the man you want to find a dark corner and do so many things with – and your sister. Issuing a meager thanks and hopeful promise to find him again – _after you deal with this_ being the unspoken comment you hope he picks up on – you tuck yourself closer to your sister and try to steer her towards the front of the venue. “_Tell me they’re not here_.”

“They’re not here.”

Hannah parrots the words back at you while trying to look over her shoulder in the direction the pair of you departed. The question that tightens its grip on your throat to the point you almost can’t speak is: is she telling you what you want to hear, or telling the truth? You pinch her arm just above her elbow, making her squeak and glare at you. Good. You want her full attention, and now her mood matches your own. “I’m serious, Hannah.”

She shakes you off but thankfully keeps pace alongside you. “It’s Thursday. Jeeez.”

You blink hard, trying to make that answer make any bit of sense but failing to remember any standing obligation. Maybe if you hadn’t been so focused on partying as hard as you could _to forget_ living under the same roof as your parents…

“Are you really not coming to the house?”

“I’ve already got a room for the night.”

“With _him_?” She tries again to look back through the crowd in Quincy’s direction. Thankfully the pair of you have made it far enough through the venue that she can’t catch a glimpse. At least, you hope that’s the case.

“No.” You reach out to tug her along towards the door a little faster. “Not that it’s any of your business. But at a hotel nearby.”

“Cancel.”

“Hannah. _Fuck_.” You give your head a sharp shake, tightening your grip on her forearm, “Just _go home._”

Of course that’s when your sister decides to dig in her heels, lurching the pair of you to a hard stop. “Why should I? You won’t!”

You close your eyes and try to remember what **calm** feels like. Exhaling slowly you refocus on your little sister, standing there in the bustle of the crowd causing a scene. Murder is wrong. Murder is wrong and they’d definitely catch you red-handed. Hell – they’d have you on tape. “Different circumstances. Which I’m happy to explain, again, but now is –”

“My girls!”

_Oh. No. _Hannah’s demeanor immediately changes, a wide smile brightening her face which is clue enough as to what has happened. Your sister’s abrupt about-face is all you can focus on – that fake smile, the way she stands just a little bit straighter and wiggles her head to adjust the way her ponytail cascades over her shoulder – that and calculating just how many years you’ll get for strangling her here in front of the picturesque stairs of the venue.

_The little **liar**_.

“Langston! They’re here. I’ve found them.” Your mother swoops in from out of nowhere, entering your peripheral view like a phantom you’re worn out running from. She scoops Hannah close, pressing her ruby red matte lips to your sister’s temple before turning her gaze on you. “Don’t the pair of you look just – picturesque.”

She’s thinking another word. You can all but see it lingering there behind her eyes, what she’d like to say but won’t. She’ll save her remarks for later – not that you plan on affording her the opportunity. “This is a surprise.” You dart a hard glare at your lying little sister as she preens, tucking herself between you and your parents. At least she’s not still holding your champagne glass.

Your father looks just about as pleased to be present as you are at finding them standing there before you. You don’t miss the look your mother aims at him, prompting him to speak, “We were out,” he swallows, pressing his lips together for a moment before squaring his emerald gaze on you. “And thought we might try to catch a moment.”

“She’s staying the night.” Hannah chirps, pulling everyone’s attention, “At a hotel.”

_Traitor_.

“Oh, good. Then we’ll see you in the morning for breakfast.” Your mother coos out an invitation, but really there wasn’t any question to her statement. There was no wiggle room, no available out. There’s only one answer she’ll accept, or she’ll find some way to make the evening _all about _how she’s missed out on all the social events the city has to offer and this venue is _just the thing_ to start to remedy the situation.

Fucking **Baltimore_._**

** _ _ **


	17. You drive me to distraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ alternatively titled: _distraction_ ]

**W**hy had it been your family to ambush you at the event? Why couldn’t it have been Ransom? The thought catches you off guard, throwing you further off balance. Fellow talent-acquisition, artists, patrons and the public all carry on with the event, none-the-wiser.

If it **had** been Ransom the thoroughly fucked over feeling at least stood _a chance_ of being a halfway pleasant experience. It’s not the first time you’ve wondered about the preplanning of Harlan’s 84th. The timing is just a little too convenient. Linda had ensured that her son would be several states away, unable to entangle himself further in your business.

Blessing and a curse, really, to have Ransom otherwise occupied for the duration of this event. Occupied with Pretty Mouth, as he’d called her.

_Say hello_.

A flash of the video plays in your mind’s eye, along with a spike of something that definitely wasn’t jealousy. Ransom giving the device _a look_ before uttering those two words that had sent a jolt through your system. He knew damn well what low commands did to you. That video combined with the whispered urges of the city made focusing on the job so very difficult.

Damn Ransom. _Damn_ him.

It’s easy to imagine how he’d react to hearing that your family had surprised you at the venue. He was never one to avoid saying – _I told you so_ – typically coupling it with a delighted grin. What’s worse: **he’d be right**. At the time his alternatives had been easy enough to brush off, but now? You try to shove the mental version of him aside, try to tune out his amused laughter echoing in your head. For all your efforts you can still hear his low chuckle, there – muffled beneath the sounds of the crowd that surrounds you. 

Ransom’s suggestion to skip the event and crash the family gathering at the chalet wouldn’t have been without its own supplied drama. It was guaranteed whenever the extended family gathered. Harlan might have enjoyed your presence, or at least relished the drama it stirred up. Linda – you exhale, drawing a little amusement at the thought of her pinched expression _had _you unexpectedly shown up. After she’d gone to great pains to seclude the family? She’d take it out on Richard, and the staff, all while maintaining a thin veil of cordiality with you.

Again, you puzzle over the need to plan the patriarch’s upcoming 84th on the side of a ski slope – but then honestly who cared to dive into the _WHYs_ that drove Linda to do any of the things she did? She’s much like Ransom in that regard.

“No,” you murmur to yourself, shaking your head to try to steer your thoughts in a different direction. There was a topic that could better help you find your footing after your family’s ambush. You just haven’t figured it out, yet. “No. _He’s_ much like _her._”

Diving back into the hunt for the artists on your gallery’s get list isn’t wise considering your current headspace. Regroup. Regroup first. Regroup and relay the paperwork to the gallery and let your coworkers back in Boston, _lucky assholes that they are_, get started coordinating the contracts for the newly signed artists. They can begin processing the paperwork to get the freshly acquired pieces packed up and transferred from the venue in Maryland to the gallery in Massachusetts… and since it takes a little time and space to get a digital snapshot of said documents it wouldn’t hurt to snag another drink to sip while you worked.

It’s a good plan. Finding a quiet corner to work also allows you to untangle your sore ankle – _thanks again, Ransom_ – from the shoes you probably shouldn’t have worn. Something more sensible for an evening spent on your feet would have been better. The more you stress it, the longer it’ll take to heal, and yet the shoes you’d purchased with the commission from Ransom’s Basquiats had been **the **choice, your only choice, as you’d packed for the trip.

You tuck your legs up loosely beneath you and start to massage your thumb over the protesting joint. With your focus glued to the device perched precariously on your thigh, you take another long sip of your mixed drink. The way your evening has been going you already know what the likely answer will be to your preliminary list once someone responds: _get a few more_.

The call for **_more_** is echoed by the city, Baltimore’s urges whispering through you as you swallow another gulp of your drink. The liquor churns in your stomach, reminding you that you haven’t had much to eat. You’ll remedy that area of oversight once you return to the hotel, either by the in-hotel restaurant or room service… and snag a few of the bottles from the minibar for good measure. Your family might insist on your presence in the morning, but they’d not been specific as to the condition you had to be in.

Maybe you were too harsh on Ransom for the way he chose to embrace the role his family assigned him. Wasn’t it easier to just go with it? Rebelling hadn’t exactly worked out in your favor, before.

You exhale a sigh as the gallery responds with the expected reply. Still, with the preliminary list sent you need to follow through with the digital copies of the agreements you’ve accumulated thus far. Untucking your uninjured ankle, you twist to make use of the rest of the alcove where you’ve set up. You make quick work of flattening the folded papers out and attaching digital copies to the file, sending everything to your counterparts at the gallery.

As you send the last of the agreements you realize maybe you should have drawn out the process a little more. Finishing this part of the communication means getting back to working the room, which means getting back on your feet, which means going through the process of putting your shoe back on your quietly protesting ankle.

Mindlessly you flip through the pages of collected signatures, preparing to fold the paperwork up again to return it all to your clutch. Damn Ransom for being right. You should have skipped out on the event. Returning to Baltimore has only served to stir up bad habits you thought you’d worked through. You thought you’d left that part of yourself squarely behind you, adopting new vices in place of that decidedly self-destructive behavior.

But if you hadn’t come to the event you wouldn’t have met Quincy. You flip through the collection of paperwork, finding the document you were looking for to remind yourself that there will be more interactions with him in the future. If you stop stalling the future interactions could happen sooner rather than later… the artist could be a _great_ distraction.

Ransom’s voice bubbles up within you. You fight against letting the mental figment of him take hold – fight to keep from giving his voice too much attention with his quip about artists and your love of such events. You focus at the words on the page, skimming down to the flourished signature.

**_DRBEV_**

What… what sort of signature is that? The marking he uses to sign his paintings is explained, in a way, but once again you find yourself curious about the way he introduced himself. You’re intimately familiar with the type of man that decides to go by something other than his given name, but where did the name Quincy factor in?

_ Call me Ransom. _

The memory of the day you met Ransom flashes in your mind. You’d seen him around the quad, rolled your eyes at the duckling train of girls following him around in an attempt to catch his eye. And then one day he’d tossed a book down onto your blanket, sprawled out in the grass next to you and offered his name. You’d laughed at him. Who named their kid Ransom? In response he’d tipped his head back, jutting out his chin to be able to look at you down his nose – that quiet look of defiance that became all too familiar – and assured you he was telling the truth.

It’s the memory of the boy bathed in sunshine that prompts you to scoop up your phone and tabbing over, quickly composing and sending a message –

‘_My parents forced an encounter. Apparently nobody in my family understands the word **no**_’

The thumbnail of the video file sits a few lines up, taunting you. You could delete it. Probably should delete it and remove the temptation… but who are you kidding? You’re going to watch the rest of it as soon as you’re able. You might not even bother taking the time to change. The plan is to send something back and make sure Ransom knows you’re wearing the shoes you’d purchase off the commission you’d earned from the Basquiats, right?

Which reminds you – you drag your gaze away from your phone to scowl at the strappy shoe you’d set aside. Time to return to the floor, meaning quickly tucking the documents back in your bag before attending to the issue of footwear. Your ankle redoubles its protest before you’ve even slid the shoe in place. Silent promises to apply ice at some point in the future apparently only go so far.

The thought of ice makes you tip your attention to the all-but-empty glass you’d set to one side. A refresh of your drink is just the thing that’s needed before you return to the task of talent acquisition. It won’t delay you longer than a minute or two. All it takes is a bat of the lashes and suggestive smile to get something made with a little extra kick to it. Two minutes turns to five as you linger near the bar – but then who is in any rush to return to the crowded venue floor?

Then you spy Quincy – V, DRBEV – and the urge to linger and waste time evaporates. Wishes of the gallery for more talent to be signed be damned, the rest of your evening is spoken for if you can get your way. He’s making slow progress through the venue, his attention drifting from painting to painting. Now that he’s signed with a gallery he seems to be taking the time to enjoy the experience. You set yourself on a collision course with him, pleased that he seems unaware of your focus or proximity until you are close enough to be heard. “Quincy.”

He registers surprise when he finds you standing so close, and then that broad smile returns to his features. His expression reignites the desires you’d felt in his proximity earlier, undoubtedly aided by the extra liquor in your system and the desperation to forget the unexpected encounter with your family.

Hotel. Hotel room. Now.

“Or is that _really_ your name?” You want to know what to call out over the next few hours. You have zero intention of being quiet. “Your signature suggests otherwise.”

Quincy ducks his head in a quick nod of acknowledgement. “It’s what the family – what everyone’s called me, since birth.” His brow wrinkles but the expression is gone in an instant, “I’m the fifth-generation male to carry on a ‘legacy’.”

You all but hear the air quotes as he says the word – _legacy_ – and the echoes again of a similar exchange reverberate close on its heels. Giving yourself a little shake, you shove thoughts of Ransom back into the darkness. For the time being your sights are squared elsewhere. If Ransom can have fun with Pretty Mouth…

You level an expectant look at Quincy, “So. What’s it really? Or is that a secret you plan on taking to the grave?”

He chuckles as he shakes his head, “No big secret.”

“But you’re not going to tell me.” You challenge the silent _but_ to his statement. It’s fun to watch his reactions, particularly to you, “Or do you prefer Quincy?”

He blinks and then tips his head slightly. “Actually, nobody’s asked that before. They just –” He waves away the train of thought, clearing his throat before soldiering on. “It’s Declan.”

DRBEV. That’s one initial down. You wiggle your fingers at him in a ‘keep going’ motion. “And the rest?”

Quincy – _Declan_, you quickly correct yourself – shakes his head, laughter returning to his features. “No. One name is all you get. For now.”

For now. You like the promise that hangs there. Raising both eyebrows wins you another short burst of laughter from him, the sparkle of something dangerous glinting in those delicious eyes. Oh. He’s good. But you’re better. “I’ll get your full name out of you. Mark my words.”

“Does that mean we’re on for lunch?”

You make a show out of drinking the last bit of your drink. He licks his lips as he watches you swallow. Yep. You’ve got him right where you want him. “I was thinking,” you take a step closer to him, “sooner rather than later.”

His whiskey eyes flick to your lips again before he blinks and raises an eyebrow, dropping his gaze lower. It happens all in quick succession – the licking of scorching flames as his focus travels – and then he targets you with a matching expectant expression, dislodging the one that you’d leveled at him. “_I_ think someone’s trying to call you.”

Call you? That’s not – not the response you were looking for. What? You’d have Ransom dragging you somewhere private already. It takes a little effort to blink out of your disappointment and exhale, shifting to go about the process of digging your phone out of your clutch. The spell may temporarily be broken but you won’t give up that easily. If it’s work there’s no denying that you need to answer. You can quickly issue whatever assurances they need that you’re still on the venue floor – and then… then you can turn your attention back to getting Quincy – _Delcan_ – to go back to your hotel room with you.

“Your sister again?”

If it _is_ Hannah you really will kill her. Your morning plans start to solidify into something with sharper edges. Finally retrieving your phone from the confines of your clutch, you shake your head, not wanting to risk showing Declan the murderous intention in your eyes. “If she knows what’s good for her she went home with my parents—”

“Oh. A _family _affair.”

Even the mention of your family amplifies the agitation and annoyance you’d barely managed to tamp back down. The unexpected interaction. The demand for you to make an appearance before leaving the state. A sound of denial solidifies in your throat, the action of shaking your head stalling out as you read the name flashing on the screen of your phone.

**Ransom**

That damn text reopened the lines of communication. It’s your own fault. You tap the button on the side of the phone to quiet the device, forcing yourself to speak, “No. Yes. Ugh. My family showed up – with her – which was a surprise. But that. It’s not them. Her.”

“Hannah.” Declan – yes, as you look up at him you decide it fits him much better than V or Quincy or whatever else others might call him – supplies your sister’s name. “Boyfriend, then?”

He’s fishing for information. You narrow your eyes at him briefly, the momentary agitation coursing through your system loosening it’s hold by a degree. So the interruption didn’t _totally_ derail the vibe that had been building between the pair of you. But – Ransom? As your significant other? Ransom in _that_ regard? Even thinking about it sends a flooding warmth to mingle with everything else, throwing you further off balance. Is that a welcome thought? Nightmare? Nausea inducing? Ransom would balk at the idea of another label to adhere to beyond those he happily sports, comfortable as he was with the way things were. Never mind having to admit to any _feelings_ that were associated with the notion of an established, meaningful relationship with someone.

You snort as you answer Declan, “Boyfriend? No. He’s… it’s complicated.”

“Complicated.” He repeats the word back to you, one eyebrow quirking up. Your answer clearly wasn’t the one he expected.

Fuck. Why hadn’t you just stopped after saying **_no_**.

Your phone starts to pulse again in your hand, ringing anew. This time when you look down at the screen the name of the gallery is scrolling across the readout. “Ah,” Declan points at the screen in a careful wave, clearly recognizing the name flashing in the readout, “**That** call you should probably answer.”

It’s one of the last things you wanted to do. But, yes, he’s right. You probably _should _answer, though for the life of you you can’t think what they could possibly say that they can’t communicate in a text. As you press the button to answer you look up, fully intending on at least telling him which hotel you’re staying in, but he’s already waving a silent goodbye and turning his attention to the task of making his way through the surrounding crowd.

This evening is so not going according to plan.

_Fuck_.

“What was that?”

The voice of one of your coworkers comes through the speakers on the device and you quickly snap yourself back into _work_-_mode_. “Ah, nothing. I was just talking with one of our recent acquisitions. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, exactly. But…”

But.

But.

But you need to chase something down while they’re on the other end of the line. Wrinkles always need ironing out. This wrinkle will take you off the floor, further from your goal of finding Declan again and…

_Damn._

For all his flirting and the repeated lunch invitation he hadn’t actually asked for your number or where you were staying. Granted, you could get _his _number from your cohort on the other end of the line but that would fuel the rumor mill at the gallery. They’d see right through whatever excuse you gave regarding the need for Declan’s number. Not that you cared what they said, or thought, but that wasn’t any reason to give them additional fodder on a silver platter.

Your phone continues to vibrate at odd intervals as you chase down and complete the tasks set to you by your counterparts. If it’s Hannah attempting to apologize for her role in the way the evening went sideways well, there’s no harm in letting her squirm awhile. If it’s anybody else – you don’t need the help of any other distractions, at the moment.

It’s only after you’ve rung off with the gallery that you allow yourself a glance at the notifications that had accumulated during the call. The first few messages are digital confirmations of the artwork transfers from the venue to the gallery. There is a message from Hannah, the first few words leading towards what you assume is her attempting to explain herself. You start to roll your eyes, pausing mid-action when you notice Ransom’s name in the list of notifications. Not just in the missed call log, but messages.

After ignoring his call it’s a surprise, to be honest, that he’d continued on. Or is it? The fact that there’s apparently several messages from him can either be a good thing or … well, the first is likely the – _I told you so_ – that you’ve been waiting for. The rest? Maybe it’s not so unbelievable that he’s sent several messages. He’s likely ranting about the fact that you’re ignoring him.

Though it might be wiser to go back to ignoring him and carry on with your evening you find yourself clicking to view the string of texts.

{_ Fuck the family. You’ve got the whole city to escape from them _}

He _does_ remember what being in this city does to you. Being in Baltimore _isn’t_ an advantage. You don’t even bother trying to catch the eyeroll this time. Ransom _would_ attempt to give horrible advice and then pretend ignorance when you called him on it. You won’t give him the pleasure.

Somewhere in the next few lines of text will be the phrase you’re waiting for. He’ll cycle back to remarks about what the pair of you could be up to if you’d skipped the event. Woe is him for going on a trip with his extended family.

{_ Could be stuck with them on the side of a mountain _}

You exhale, allowing a small laugh to escape as you maneuver your way back to the main floor of the venue. So close, but not quite the plea for attention and company that you’d expected. Still, there’s a certain satisfaction in being able to predict his dissatisfaction regarding location. 

{_ Now that Walt & Donna are back  
Full house again _}

Wait – Walt and Donna managed to escape the required attendance, and this is the first you’re hearing of it? And Ransom hadn’t taken advantage of the moment, escaping along with them – or did he miss out on the opportunity for his adventures with Pretty Mouth and the rest of the staff?

There’s that stupid surge of jealousy trying to make itself known again. You stomp your foot and immediately regret it for the throbbing protestation that your ankle responds with.

The temptation is there to just swipe to close Ransom’s stream of consciousness and focus on the business at hand again. Curiosity keeps you reading. Yes, it’s curiosity and not that other thing – not that you miss him, not that you want to know what he’s going through, not that you _care_.

He might’ve weighed the entertainment value of watching his mother seethe over her ruined plans in person vs trying to play off and dodge her wrath. Ransom always did consider it more fun to be right in the middle of things – gave him an excuse to loudly complain and do his best to make everyone else miserable. That still didn’t explain why Walt and Donna were given a pass to leave when Linda had made it abundantly clear that the entire family was expected to stay for the duration.

{ _One little bump and he was on his back, screaming  
Like it’s my fault he can’t walk on ice_ }

Knowing firsthand what Ransom considers ‘a little bump’ you can’t help but sympathize a little with his uncle. You still sport the bruises from Ransom’s particular brand of mayhem, not to mention the steady ache you’re feeling from your ankle. You hadn’t had the disadvantage of a slick surface to battle with, though. Even unmatched as it had been with you in your heels you hadn’t ended up needing medical treatment. Is that where Donna and Walt had gone? To the emergency room?

There are still a few lines left before the blank space and blinking cursor beckoning a reply from you. Your attention skips to the last line of text from him and your heart does a little flip –

{ _Call me. I’ll take your mind off things_ }

There’s that familiar surge of desire and recklessness wherein he’s concerned. You’d like nothing better than to give in but… ‘_Later_’ – you tap out a reply, only halfway annoyed that he’s gotten exactly what he wanted, a response out of you – ‘_Still working_’

He won’t like that answer. Waiting never has been his forte. Then again it isn’t your job to please him. It’s not nearly as much fun when you can’t watch his pupils dilate, or that little tick start up in his jaw as he clenches his teeth. You exhale and resituate your determination to get through this event. There’s a new list of things the gallery would like you to tackle before the evening is through. Besides, there’s no better way to accidentally-on-purpose run into Declan again.


End file.
